Merge, Purge, Surge, Repeat.

A coworker of mine, Stacey Wiedower, has a theory about mergers:

In a few years, mergers will leave us with ultra-conglomerates. We will shop at Store, put our funds into Bank, and watch one network called TV. We will eat at Restaurant, wear Brand, drive Vehicle.

Scary? Yes. Funny? Absolutely. I see it as another one of those Things Which Cannot Be Avoided, something on which to comment but not necessarily worry. And hey, if I'm not worried about it, nobody else should be, either -- because I worry about everything! :)

The real question is when the world mergers are going to pick up in full force. That's when the real fun begins. Then we will all watch News (hey, they've already got the name for it), and shop at Daiso.

All hail our CEO-verlords.

A plague on Humana

My employer pays for my health insurance. For this, I am eternally grateful.

My insurance is through Humana. For this, I am not so grateful. Here's my problem. I am to go see a psychiatrist on Thursday to help me with some very real problems that my general practitioner has been unsuccessful in treating.

But because this guy's a head doctor and not a "real doctor," I am stuck paying my deductible, up to $1,000 BEFORE Humana pays a dime.

I can't even begin to tell you how this is killing me. I basically cannot afford to get the help I need, which besides being bad unto itself, makes me feel even more anxious about the whole situation. Man, I was living for this appointment. I was telling myself that this would finally be the genesis from which I could fix things. And, now, Humana is basically dooming me. I can't take it. Somebody please give me one good reason to continue to get out of bed in the morning.

Now where did I put my gloves and scarf?

Paul's in Orlando, where it's 62 degrees F at 8 in the morning. Today, it's going to warm up to a balmy, mostly sunny 72 degrees.

Here in Memphis, it's 44 degrees F. The temperature is going to drop all day, ending up below freezing by nightfall.

So before I get ready for work, I've got to secure a hat and scarf. Oh, and gloves if I can find two that match. I'm feeling a temper(ature) tantrum coming on. >:(

Fontified!

I created a font of my handwriting. Why? I don't know. It was cheap and cool and I'd been talking about it for a while now. So I present to you: Kate's Handwriting (appropriate name, no?):



Thing is, I don't really know when I'll use this. Eh, just a minor detail.

Good ... Bad

Paul left town yesterday for a week-long analytical chem conference in Orlando. Let us now commence a game of good...bad to memorialize the occasion.

GOOD: I put on makeup(!) on a Saturday(!) which is something I rarely do even when Paul is home.
BAD: The only person who saw it was my waiter at the Mexican restaurant where I got a table for one and pored over a New Orleans visitor's guide.

GOOD: I played video games past midnight over a jack&coke, falling asleep in my clothes and makeup.
BAD: I can't take my sleeping pills when I drink, which means I slept like hell, woke up in my clothes, and had lipstick smeared on my chin and the back of my hand.

GOOD: Despite the lack of sleep, I rolled out of bed to take my meds (on time, no less!).
BAD: Despite the lack of sleep, I can't go back to bed. I'm groggy but can't fall asleep.

GOOD: I spent 45 minutes tackling some much-needed cleaning/organizing that Paul and I put off when we moved.
BAD: I haven't made a dent in the mess. And my allergies are going haywire from the dust.

GOOD: I decided to cook breakfast instead of noshing on junk food.
BAD: The closest thing I could find to "real food" was a Pasta Anytime that expired more than six months ago. I'm eating it anyway. :)

I'm actually doing quite well -- I didn't realize how much I'd come to rely on Paul around here. But it's nice to have some Me Time to spend as I see fit. And right now, I see fit to plan towards our vacation next week. Oh, and finish eating my expired pasta.

With a brushstroke here and a brushstroke there

... here a stroke, there a stroke, everywhere a brushstroke ...
Old McKatie took up art, E-I-E-I-O.

I'm painting. I don't know why. I've never painted in my life, save fingerpaints. But I saw some acrylics on sale right before Christmas and bought them for Paul -- and now I use them more than he does.

Music's always been my bag. Art to me is doodling on a Post-It while talking on the phone.

So why am I coming home from work, shunning my video games (and naps!) and painting? And why am I making a special stop on the way home to buy a canvas?

First time for everything, eh?

Actually, that reminds me of something -- there wasn't a first time for pottery. I remember one year how badly I wanted a potter's wheel for Christmas. (This was after the Christmas debacle with the rock tumbler -- I guess I never learn.) Anyway, on Christmas morning, Santa had left me a pottery set, complete with clay, wheel, the works.

So I take it home, open the box and get out the instructions. And it tells me to open the clay up, add a bunch of water and get it nice and gooey before putting it on the wheel. Hurm, I thought, this wasn't as easy as I had planned. So I cut open the container of clay, get out a big gob, and start adding the water as directed.

Five minutes later, I was covered in ooey gray clay from my fingers to my elbows. The wheel was covered in a layer of clay (read: NOT a beautiful pot, as I had imagined). The sink was covered in clay. And, umm, yeah, since I'd decided to do this in the guest bathroom, I managed to gunk up the carpet, too. (It's fun explaining the unidentifiable brown mess to guests. Really fun. I swear. Okay, no, I'm lying.)

Anyway, the worst part happened when the clay started to dry. You know those special mud masks you pay big bucks for at the spa? Yeah, potters can do them at home for free. Dried clay does not come out from under fingernails. Dried clay does not come out of hair. Okay, yeah, it does come out of hair -- with the hair firmly attached to the clay instead of your head.

Now, I've shared. And back to work.

I think I can, I think I can (maybe, possibly)

I don't feel like the Little Engine The Could. I feel more like the Little Caboose That's Hardly Holding On.

I get up in the morning, shuffle through the day, go home and sleep. I don't do yoga anymore. Sometimes I doodle on the piano; sometimes I play video games if I feel up to it. But mostly I just pull the covers over my head where it's not so scary. I don't mention feelings anymore -- tell Paul about the violent thoughts, and he gets worried about me. Best not to rock the boat.

Yesterday, I mentioned to a coworker that I was scared about my psychiatrist appointment next Thursday. She said, "Well, at least you only have to make it until then, and then it'll be over with." I didn't correct her, but I was thinking that, no, it wouldn't be over with -- it'd just be beginning.

I'm so tired of being me.

... Wonder if I inherited the crappy depression and anxiety from my biological parents? At least I'd have somebody to blame other than myself.

Now, where did I put those Klonopin?

Happy pigs?!

Behold, the Israelites traversed the desert for 40 years, sustained by manna from heaven and the vision of the promised land.

Meanwhile, Memphians spend their whole lives traversing the city in search of the perfect pork barbecue. Is it Corky's, Interstate, Gridley's, Neely's? Or maybe Pig 'n' Whistle? Mama's? Tops? Rendezvous? Well, if the masses are split on the *best*, at least there are innumerable places that serve passable barbecue, where a Memphis resident can get a quick fix in the form of pulled pork slathered in spicy goodness.

This is why we're the fattest city on earth. But it tastes so damn good that all the skinny cities don't know what they're missing out on.

But Memphis barbecue restaurants have a vibe all their own, one I've never picked up in a barbecue shop anywhere in the country. What is this phenomenon? It's happy pigs.

Click on the link in the title bar above. This goes to a RoadFood.com review of a typical Memphis barbecue dive. And what's that painted on the wall? A pig who's smiling so big he looks nearly orgasmic. You can practically hear him screaming: "You just ate my family, fatso! And if you're lucky, Aunt Gertrude's gonna give you a helluva case of heartburn!"

Without exception, Memphis barbecue restaurants are covered in decor that constantly reminds you exactly what you're eating. And it's not like paintings of the family hog, either. No, it's usually cute cartoons reminiscent of the three little pigs.

In fact, my parents took me to a restaurant called Three Little Pigs when I was a child. Smiling caricatures of the three pigs (sans wolf) donned the outside of the building, filling my eight-year-old heart with a guilt that would stay with me for years. I ordered chicken.

I don't know whose idea it was to fill barbecue restaurants with cute pictures of pigs. It certainly can't be the brightest marketing ploy. I mean, hell, even Chik-Fil-A doesn't make cute chickens. Instead they make cute, sentient cows that help you forget you're eating a dead bird. Make cute dead birds, and Wall Street thinks you've flipped your lid.

Anyway, I think they're trying for the notion that happy pigs make happy barbecue, and happy barbecue is yummy barbecue that you want to shove in your mouth between bites of cole slaw and fried pickles. But, at least in my eyes, the idea totally fails. When I see a smiling pig, I think he's got something to hide. I think he's trying to tell you this:

"Hey buddy! You know what a Boston butt is? That's right, man. It's my ASS. Keep that in mind the next time the wife fries you up some bacon. You may be thinking 'tasty treat,' but I'm still thinking ASS. Bwahahaha."

Interview with an editor (Answers, Part One)

I figured I'd answer Rosalind's questions in sections, as I have time. Let's see here.

1. Start off by giving me a little information about your educational background: where you went to school, degree obtained, other school activities that may relate to your current position. Well, let's see here. I attended Briarcrest Christian School for K3-12th grades. Then I went to the University of Memphis, where I graduated magna cum laude with a Bachelor of Arts degree in August 2002. My major was journalism, with a news/editorial focus. I've been involved with a number of activities that relate to my job. In high school, I wrote for the school paper and was copy editor of the yearbook. In college, I worked for The Daily Helmsman for four years in various positions (reporter, copy editor, managing editor and editor in chief). I also interned at The Commercial Appeal as a copy editor.

2. Give me a ballpark figure for expected salary for your position. In other words, your starting salary, without being very specific. Do I really have to answer this? (Ha!) According to the Monster.com Salary Center, a Memphis copy editor will earn a median of $34,490, with the 25th percentile being $29,125. I've been working here for less than two years, so my salary is ... low. But hey, at least that gives you a ballpark figure, right?

3. Your title and what your duties are. ( I think I pretty much have this covered, but just in case…) My title is copy editor. My duties aren't really encompassed in my title. My boss likes to tell people I read every word that goes into the paper, and it's true. Every day, I read the new legal notices, such as foreclosures, court notices and beer/liquor permits. I then proof our Business & People, Law & Courts and Real Estate sections. I handle a number of technical duties, as well, such as looking up warranty and trust deeds for a section we call Real Estate Recap. And I am the editorial department's SQL guru -- I query and collate data for the reporters for Weekly Snapshot (a weekly feature) and special reports (a monthly feature).

4. When you were getting ready to graduate from college, what were your goals and aspirations for a career? I'm going to manipulate this question, because I think it's an interesting story of career ambitions. I started coding the programming language BASIC when I was 9 or 10 years old. My parents even enrolled me in a University of Memphis coding class at that age. By the time I was in 7th grade, I wanted to be a lawyer, which stayed with me through most of high school. I always loved to write, but it didn't feel like a "real job" to me! I actually chose journalism as a college major by default: I knew I could do it until I chose a different major. Except I never chose another major! :-) What's interesting about this story is that I now do the two jobs I wanted to do as a child: I am heavily involved in legals, and I do a fair amount of computer coding. So I've really come full circle. Now, to answer your question: I tried my hand (very briefly) at being a reporter at my college newspaper, and decided that just wasn't my cup of tea. So I moved on to copy editing. I actually served as copy editor only one semester (the shortest of any job I had at the Helmsman), but I knew THAT was the job for me. I moved up into administrative positions at the paper, but continued to edit proofs as needed.

5. Do you plan to go for a higher degree? Yes, in three or four years. Why? Because I can. And because I miss being in school. My husband is currently a doctoral candidate in chemistry, with about three years left before he gets his degree. When he went back to school, I was (just slightly) peeved that I'd be the major breadwinner for four years. So we made a deal that he'd support me after his graduation while I went back to school. We're intensely competitive with each other (in a good way). So if he's going to be Dr. Paul, I'm going to be Dr. Kate. And I'll make more money than him because I always have. :-D

6. How you ended up working for the Daily news and a little about your experiences here. (overall) Right before my last semester in college, Paul proposed to me. I spent that semester planning a wedding, not a career. I had a small inheritance that supported me through the first few months of marriage, but I was so bored! I knew I didn't want to go back to The Commercial Appeal (that's a story for another time!), so I took a job at a bookstore and thought about getting into publishing. I posted my resume on Monster.com, and honestly forgot about it. Eric Barnes, the publisher of The Daily News, found my resume and contacted me about a copy editing position. I was so excited! I scheduled an interview, and when I got here, the interviewer asked me if I'd like to be a reporter. I almost died! I told her flatly that, no, I'd rather stay at the bookstore than become a reporter. Yes, I had good clips from the Helmsman and the Commercial Appeal, but that wasn't my bag. So she hired me as a copy editor. In retrospect, I took a big gamble by telling her I'd rather stay at the bookstore than be a reporter. I'm lucky it paid off.

-- to be continued later --

Open letter to Internal Revenue Service

Internal Revenue Service
Department of the Treasury
Small Business Area #8 -- Lien Unit
801 Broadway, MDP-46
Nashville, TN 37203

22 February 2005

Dear IRS:

Being the light-hearted, fun guys that you are, I would like to share with you an interesting experience. This morning, I blogged a post titled "Open letter to Monsanto" (see below). In said letter, I relayed how one William F. Trantham caused a three-car wreck that damaged my bumper, then lied about having insurance to cover the damages.

After I posted my letter, I returned to my editorial duties at the newspaper where I am employed. And a mere two hours later -- in what can only be called an amazing occurrence of synchronicity -- I beheld a federal tax lien against the very same William F. Trantham. Amazing!

According to the lien, Mr. Trantham understated his 1040s for 1998, 1999 and 2003, resulting in an underpayment of $23,852.60. In the lien you state, "We have made a demand for payment of this liability, but it remains unpaid. Therefore, there is a lien in favor of the United States on all property and rights to property belonging to this taxpayer for the amount of these taxes, and additional penalties, interest, and costs that may accrue."

So you want money from Mr. Trantham, too, huh? Well, get in line.

(In an interesting sidenote, Mr. Trantham does not seem to be residing at the address you have listed for him. I've used my Super Magical Journalist Powers to locate a more recent address and phone number for him. If you'd like them, just ask.)

Seeing as how you're part of the government and all, you might have more success than Monsanto at getting money out of Mr. Trantham. If so, do you think you could send me $300 for a new bumper?

Sincerely,
Kate

P.S. I wouldn't be asking you for a new bumper if I had received a refund this year. For the first time ever, I owed you guys money -- a total of $176, to be exact. Sending me a bumper would ease my suffering, because at least my car would be pretty again. Think it over and give me a call, OK?

Open letter to Monsanto

Monsanto Corp.
800 N. Lindbergh Blvd.
St. Louis, MO 63167

22 February 2005

Dear Monsanto:

On 20 December 2004, I was involved in a three-car accident in Memphis, Tenn. A GMC pickup hit a Ford Taurus, pushing the Taurus into me as I sat at a complete stop.

So why am I writing you? Well, the pickup was being driven by one William Trantham. He owes you $592,677.89 for patent infringement. See, you and I have something in common. Mr. Trantham lied to you when he bought Roundup Ready seeds using a false name. And he lied to me when he told me he had insurance.

Now, I don't know when you're going to get your money -- if you get it at all. But if you do, could you please give me $300 for a new bumper cover? I'd only had my car for four days, and it's just not fair.

Sincerely,
Kate

P.S. In your free time, do you think you could clean up the environment a bit? kthxbai.

Literally...

Breakfast time is news-watching time. Period. I watch the local news and then the national news so I can catch up on the things that have happened in the six or seven hours since the last broadcast.

This morning, I'm watching a story about the Michael Jackson molestation case when I hear this little gem from the newscaster (a nationally known reporter who shall remain nameless): "The prospective jurors are literally bending over backwards to get on this jury."

And suddenly, I get a mental picture of 300 or 400 people doing elaborate contortions for the judge and attorneys.



You can't hear our little contortionist here, but I promise you she's saying, "Pleeeeease learn how to use the word 'literally' ... oh, hey, and could somebody scratch my nose? My toes are a little too far away..."

Think of "literally" as a spice. Some people use it like salt -- they liberally sprinkle it all over everything they say. But it shouldn't be used like salt. It should be used more like, umm, cumin or something.

Okay, I'll shut up now.

Mystery shopping

Had a friend ask me about mystery shopping. This is not the first time I've been asked. Here is my reply to him with things I think every potential mystery shopper needs to know.

Morning. Finally got a couple of minutes to give you a little more information. There are a few things I think any potential mystery shopper needs to know right off the bat, because these can make or break you. (Well, they can at least affect the quality and quantity of assignments.)

• In order to be a successful shopper, you need an active Internet connection, the ability to write well and a good memory. Other things that are useful for mystery shoppers: a good digital watch (almost every shop requires a stopwatch of some sort) and a digital camera. Oh. And you have to be willing to work on a deadline. You miss your deadline, you don't get paid.
• It also helps to possess a bit of acting ability. A lot of times, a company provides you with a scenario. For example, I was sent to a jewelry store where I had to pretend to be looking at diamond engagement rings for myself. (Yes, that's a pretty contrived situation, considering most women don't go alone to a jewelry store to pick out their own ring.)
• Certification is good. It costs $15 online at http://www.mysteryshop.org/shoppers/. Almost all of the good mystery shopping companies are members of this group, and certification ensures that the shoppers they hire are held to certain standards. Member companies give preferential treatment to certified shoppers when assigning shops.
• That said, you should never (ever ever) pay to get an assignment. I've had three or four people who are interested in mystery shopping tell me about a classified ad that runs in the Commercial Appeal where people pay to be a part of a company that secures you assignments. All the companies I contract with assign shops via the Internet for free. There's no need to pay a company to find you jobs.
• Mystery shopping won't pay your bills. Period. Most shop fees are around $10 or $15 plus an expense fee. For example, I did a dinner shop at Lonestar Steakhouse with an expense account of $30 for the meal (with the requirements that my guest and I had to get an appetizer, two entrees, beverages and dessert). It paid $10 on top of that. Bottom line: You have to do a heckuva lot of shops for those $10 or $15 fees to add up.
• Corollary: Most companies work on a refund basis. So, in the above example, I paid my $30 tab out of pocket, then later received a $40 check (expenses plus shop fee). I don't have a problem paying out of pocket, since most of the shops are things I'd be doing anyway (eating out, buying donuts, going to the eye doctor, etc.).

Those are the things I wish I'd known going into it. :) Now that the basics are out of the way, the fun part begins: Contracting with companies. I contract with, heck, I don't know anymore ... Somewhere between 25 and 35 companies. (They e-mail when there's an assignment in your area.) The more companies you sign up with, the better your chances of getting a fun or well-paying shop!

A good resource for choosing companies is http://www.volition.com/mystery.html. There's a link midway down the page (under a yellow box advertising their newsletter) that reads "Mystery Shopping Companies List." Under that, they've broken it down alphabetically into 3 pages: A-G, H-P and Q-Z. Visit the companies' Web sites, read through their stuff and sign up if they sound cool. Rinse and repeat. I did all of my signups in three or four hours on a Saturday. Most sign-up forms require a short essay that (a.) identifies how you'd react in a mystery shopping situation, and (b.) assesses your writing skills. Write your essay in Word or Notepad and save it. Chances are you can copy and paste it later in another company's form.

Umm, if you have questions, you know where to find me. :) Hope this helps without being overwhelming!

K

Party of four becomes party of three (or how I had to cancel my dinner date for tonight)

To: Christy, Johanna, Candy. (and bcc:'d to myself)

Happy President's Day, ladies.

I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to make it tonight to Rafferty's. I've had a meeting come up that's really important to me. (I know -- could I be any more vague? I just don't want to give details prematurely, so be patient with me here.)

I'm going to be at the Davis-Kidd book-signing next Tuesday. I know I'll see Johanna then, and hopefully you too, Christy and Candy. I can't believe it's been 10 months since we had lunch at Blue Monkey. How time flies when you grow up and enter the real world.

Oh, while I've got your ear, please keep me in your thoughts/prayers. I'm going to see a psychiatrist on Thursday, March 3, to help with some anxiety issues. I've been on anxiety medication since 2001 with only moderate success, and my doctor feels I need a combination of drugs to get it under control. I have good days and bad days (who doesn't?!), except my bad days usually involve staying in bed and taking calm-down meds. Honestly, I'm scared witless at the thought of going to a psychiatrist, because there's still a huge stigma attached to "seeing a shrink." I didn't know how I was going to bring it up in person at dinner tonight, so an e-mail serves my purposes well. You guys have all known me a long time and I know you'll be sympathetic to what I'm going through.

Also, I mentioned to Johanna that I've got an anthology coming out. Of course, it's a tiny production compared to hers, as it's just a small local publishing company that's trying to build its base. It's a book of mysteries under 1,200 words. I was amazed by the response -- I received nearly 150 submissions from all over the country (and Canada, England and Crete!). Fifty-three made it into the book. The publisher and I are negotiating with artists now.

I'm really going to miss seeing you guys tonight, but you are three of the most understanding gals out there. Please send me e-mail -- all of you -- and fill me in on dinner. Oh, and let me know if you'll be at Johanna's signing, too.

Love you all ... have fun ...
Kate

Brain Shivers

8:00:04 a.m. Monday: Almost fall over from a bad case of brain shivers.

8:00:06 a.m. Monday: Start questioning myself: "Did I take my medicine this morning?" (Yes.) "Did I take my medicine YESTERDAY morning?" (Yes.) "Did you eat breakfast?" (Yes.) "Are you sure?!" (Yeeees.)

8:01:14 a.m. Monday: Sit down. Can't think. Brain hurts, bad.

8:24:17 a.m. Monday: Decide I must drive into work, despite the shivers. Get into the car. Sit.

8:27:54 a.m. Monday: Start the car.

8:29:13 a.m. Monday: Nearly puke. Roll down the window. Back out of the driveway.

8:59:03 a.m. Monday: Pull into work. Sit.

9:02:34 a.m. Monday: Grab bag. Walk into office. Almost fall. Get to desk. Sit.

If you take venlafaxine, you know what I'm talking about. I didn't even know it had a name until I hopped on Google one day searching for information on sudden strange bursts of dizziness, like my brain was a couple of milliseconds behind my body when I'd turn my head or move. And then I found out there were others like me. Lots of others like me.

The first time I heard the term "brain shivers," lordy, I knew exactly what they were talking about. And I cried. I really did. It was so helpful to know that there were other people like me out there who felt this. The scary thing: sometimes brain shivers go on for years after tapering off the Effexor. Years.

Read this: http://www.socialaudit.org.uk/4200wjgi.htm or this: http://depression.about.com/cs/venlafaxine/a/brainshivers.htm (the experiences go on to pages 2 and 3).

Wyeth has finally included in its list of side effects "sensory disturbances (including shock-like electrical sensations)." Not nearly as poetic as "brain shivers," nor as accurate.

If you have come across this page from the Great Expanses of the Internet, and you are trying to decide whether to take Effexor/venlafaxine, you need to be aware of the symptoms you're going to experience.

I'm posting this directly from the prescribing information (and applicable footnotes.) Footnotes are in bold italics. RED TEXT indicates symptoms I experience.

Major Depressive Disorder

Note in particular the following adverse events that occurred in at least 5% of the Effexor XR patients and at a rate at least twice that of the placebo group for all placebo-controlled trials for the major depressive disorder (Table 3): Abnormal ejaculation, gastrointestinal complaints (nausea, dry mouth, and anorexia), CNS complaints (dizziness, somnolence, and abnormal dreams [mostly vivid dreams, nightmares, and increased dreaming]), and sweating. In the two U.S. placebo-controlled trials, the following additional events occurred in at least 5% of Effexor XR-treated patients (n = 192) and at a rate at least twice that of the placebo group: Abnormalities of sexual function (impotence in men, anorgasmia in women [mostly delayed ejaculation], and libido decreased), gastrointestinal complaints (constipation and flatulence), CNS complaints (insomnia, nervousness, and tremor), problems of special senses (abnormal vision [mostly blurred vision and difficulty focusing eyes]), cardiovascular effects (hypertension and vasodilatation [mostly hot flashes], and yawning.

Generalized Anxiety Disorder

Note in particular the following adverse events that occurred in at least 5% of the Effexor XR patients and at a rate at least twice that of the placebo group for all placebo-controlled trials for the GAD indication (Table 4): Abnormalities of sexual function (abnormal ejaculation and impotence), gastrointestinal complaints (nausea, dry mouth, anorexia, and constipation), problems of special senses (abnormal vision [mostly blurred vision and difficulty focusing eyes]), and sweating.

In addition, I suffer from these symptoms, which didn't making it onto Wyeth's "top 10" list: Asthenia (weakess, lack of energy), paresthesia (tingling "pins and needles" feeling) in my hands and feet, and increased yawning. My legs get a nervous tremor (they "bounce" all the time now, which has led to edema in both ankles). And, of course, there are the sleep issues, which I've addressed before.

Anyway, my point is to be careful. Know what you're getting into. Know that this is a good drug -- a great drug -- if you need it, but that it's not free-and-easy. Also know that there are others like you, and plenty who are willing to talk about it.

Interview with a vampire, err, I mean editor...

Rosalind, the reporting intern (and all-around awesomely helpful chica) at TDN is taking a publishing process class at the University of Memphis this semester. She has elected me as her written interviewee. Here are the questions I must answer. (I'm sure I'll blog my answers over the weekend.)

1. Start off by giving me a little information about your educational background: where you went to school, degree obtained, other school activities that may relate to your current position.
2. (This is to provide information for the students in my class.) Give me a ballpark figure for expected salary for your position. In other words, your starting salary, without being very specific.
3. Your title and what your duties are. ( I think I pretty much have this covered, but just in case…)
4. When you were getting ready to graduate from college, what were your goals and aspirations for a career?
5. Do you plan to go for a higher degree?
6. How you ended up working for the Daily news and a little about your experiences here. (overall)
7. What other editing positions do you hold? (Didn’t you say you were editor of another Downtown publication???)
8. Your opinion on the opportunities that are available in Memphis (the South) for students interested in publishing, either in newspaper or other markets?
9. Tell me about how you came to work on the anthology.
10. Tell me about the story gathering process and the publishing process for the anthology.
11. Since the anthology was a small press project, will you be responsible for the publicity and sales?
12. How does working on the anthology tie into your day-to-day role as an editor?
13. Which do you enjoy more: the fiction market or newspaper?
14. Tell me about any plans you have for the future as far as newspaper publishing or fiction.
15. What is most enjoyable about your job?
16. …least enjoyable?
17. Any advice for aspiring editors????

Well, what do you think? Should I tell her how editing led to my current stint with antidepressants and antianxiety pills? And how it's ultimately sending me to a shrink? Or should I tell her about my love affair with red pens -- the candy-coated version in which I'm Fairly Incrediblewoman, able to leap dangling participles in a single bound?

Will ponder all these things before replying to her. And as I ponder, I shall be known as

Predator Editor <3

Spam Poetry

As long as I'm sharing poetry sans context today, I thought I'd share my spam poem. Actually, I *will* give you a bit of context. This was created totally from subject lines gathered from two e-mail accounts over three days. So there. Oh! And the top two aren't really spam; they're a mailing list I signed up for. But it's junk if I consider it junk, right?

Greetings from The Natural State!
Indulge yourself in The Natural State!
Real web traffic - Speculate
and watch the Euro fluctuate.
Name brand ink from $4.45.
Hey! Your site has qualified
for wholesale ink from overseas;
High-quality business identities.
Horny housewives want your sex --
Get a replica Rolex.
Get noticed -- Rolex replica!
Live large with a Rolex replica!
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Planning

Planning

Forty-seven hours from now
I will roll down the windows
on my all-American SUV,
Shake my hair loose from a bun,
and crank up music sung
by an artist no one's heard of.

Eighty-three weeks from now
I will have mastered Schumann's "Carnival,"
pace my fingers as they fly by memory,
Write more, criticize less,
and consider going back for my doctorate
just because I can.

One hundred and thirteen years from now
I will disconnect from this reality,
Learn to travel faster than light,
Understand that thing about one hand clapping,
and start mapping out a to-do list
for the next phase of my existance.

So how could I know
that when you asked me about my plans
You only wanted to know
if I would be working late
and if I could pick up some toothpaste
on my way home?

Zoloft defense -- shot down

Okies. Gotta keep this quick, because I know pages will be on my desk shortly. Just felt the need to comment on two things.

1. A 15-year-old boy from Charleston, S.C., has been sentenced to 30 years in prison for killing his grandparents when he was 12. It's a horrific crime, and I don't want to lessen the blow that two people were murdered here. The twist is that the boy, Christopher Pittman, was taking the antidepressant Zoloft at the time of the murders.

A lot has come to light lately about the safety of antidepressants in children. (Between that at the snafu with Vioxx/Bextra/Celebrex, I know the drugmakers must be reworking their resumes right now.) I am not going to bring up the conflicting studies that say SRIs are safe or unsafe in kids -- mainly because I don't have time to look up the data right now. But I do want to tell you a little bit my encounter with the little blue pill Zoloft -- and how I spent months recovering from it.

I started taking Zoloft right before my 20th birthday. Most people who read this blog (read: people who know me) know the circumstances of that summer, so I'm not going to rehash. But I approached my primary care physician with the classic symptoms of depression and generalized anxiety: feeling sad, crying a lot, irregular sleep habits, weight changes. I was put on a fairly low dose of Zoloft, along with BuSpar, which I was supposed to increase over a period of weeks. The BuSpar was out of the picture rather quickly -- it made me quite sick (incidentally, the BuSpar symptoms largely mirror the discontinuation symptoms of SSRIs, like my current one, Effexor).

I was off the BuSpar before the Zoloft even had a chance to kick in -- do you realize those SRIs take several weeks to reach full efficacy? I didn't really realize the Zoloft had started to effect me until a couple of months after my treatment started, when people started to tell me I was acting like my "old self" again. (Quoted, because I really don't remember myself before the depression and anxiety kicked in.) Okay, so I was under treatment. I thought things were going to change.

And they did. But not in the way I'd hoped.

First it was the dreams -- and this is something that has followed me throughout my treatment options (Zoloft, BuSpar, Celexa, Klonopin, Effexor XR -- and I think I'm leaving one out in the middle, maybe?). My dreams become so vivid that they're practically lucid. (Yes, I know the difference.) They aren't always bad or good, but they are usually very strange. And they stick with me for a long time, even though I've long since stopped keeping a formal dream journal. The dreams caused my sleep habits to change, to get worse. And that exacerbated the anxiety that I was already feeling.

After a few months -- eight, I believe -- I decided to wean myself off the Zoloft. Remember, this was my first SRI, so I didn't realize how difficult it would be to wean. Now I've never taken heroin. But if the Zoloft discontinuation was anything like that of heroin, I can understand why methadone clinics stay in business. The dreams got worse. The anxiety got worse. Sleep was unheard of. I do believe the discontinuation was worse than the depression and anxiety before I ever started the Zoloft. And the problem was that it lasted for months. I was at the end of my rope.

So, to tie this back into to Mr. Christopher Pittman: I didn't kill anybody while I was on Zoloft. But the scary thing is that I didn't notice myself changing until other people pointed it out to me. Here was a drug that was changing me -- and it was even doing horrible things to my mind -- and I was so blind to it that it took an outsider to say, "Hey. What's up with you?"

2. I've written enough already, but I want to bring this message back up to the present day. I've gone through five classes of anxiety/depression treatment. The depression is bearable; the anxiety is not. On March 3, I visit a psychiatrist to see if a combination of therapies can help me work through this. It's a scary thing, although I've been put at ease by a friend named Tyler who happens to be a psychiatrist himself.

Right now, I'm on 300 mg of Effexor XR, and Klonopin for when the Effexor doesn't seem to be enough. The Effexor is ... unique (is that the word I'm looking for?) in that I've been able to tolerate it for almost two years now in increasing doses. But as it lessens my anxiety, I get worse in other ways. I can't sleep unless I take a sleeping pill. The gnawing anxiety makes me feel violent -- mainly towards myself -- although I have assured Paul I am sane enough to not doing anything stupid like suicide or self-mutilation. As an interesting side note, did you realize that the higher a person's IQ, the less predisposed he is to commit suicide? My IQ is somewhere between 150-155, so maybe I'm smart enough to keep myself from myself. :-)

Anyway, the effects are horrible, and the discontinuation is worse. If I'm an hour or two late taking my pill, I'm so dizzy and sick I can't get out of bed. Other Effexor patients call them "brain shocks," and they are well-documented in psych journals (although they use a much more technical term). I'm afraid in a few years, drugs like Effexor will suffer the same fate as Vioxx/Bextra/Celebrex, in that the FDA will admit a snafu in allowing it to reach the market, because there are plenty of people out there just like me who wonder if the treatment is worse than the disease itself.

I'm taking a poetry workshop online (don't ask why -- I've been writing poetry for years, and I've never taken a class before). One good effect though is that it makes me write every day. I used to write only when I felt so burdened that I knew the resulting poetry/prose would be laden with emotion. Now I realize it doesn't have to be such a heart-wrenching thing. If I can see the beauty in the mundane, that's good too ... and if I have a body of work I've created, I can choose the gems from it, instead of expecting them all to be top-quality.

So I thought I'd share what I wrote last night about going to the psychiatrist. As I drove into the driveway last night, on an unseasonably warm February evening, I felt prompted to talk about my psychiatry appointment -- and the way it scares me a little bit.


(As of yet untitled) <-- Hey, I just wrote it last night! Cut me some slack!
Tufts of May green
Sprout between the winter brown,
Fleeting visions of light
In long-neglected shadows and corners.
Only two weeks now until Someone Qualified
Sizes me up like the season's first crabapples,
Wondering how I weathered
that unexpected frost,
Judging whether I would make a fine jam
Or have been infested by worms.
And I long for the vestiges of winter
To hold on longer --
To bundle me like a crocus bulb
Until I know my time has come.
I wanted to linger in my flowerbed
Between the punctual day lilies
And the hearty jonquils,
Near the crepe myrtle who weeps
Beautful fragrant blooms deep into fall.
But already the lawn is whispering spring,
Teasing with hints of color
And calling for new life to burst from the ground.
And I wonder how long
I can bury myself
Deny a flower will grow
From this dusty hard shell of me,
And pretend I'm not hiding
From the rain and the sun.

3 p.m. -- Lunchtime.

Well, it's time to settle down for some lunch -- today, an Arby's regular roast beef with Arby's sauce and horsey sauce (because I couldn't make up my mind).

It's Valentine's Day, and I haven't bought a gift for Paul. I suppose I could argue off buying a present at all, saying this is a greeting card company-created holiday in which true love is downgraded to a box of chocolate or some roses. Ephemeral, all of it. Not to say that tokens of affection are lost on me. Because they're not, really. But I want to buy a present that's lasting, something that's reminiscent of where we've been and how far we've come.

Last year, I wrote a love poem, I'm sure long-forgotten. Not that I can blame Paul, for it's only words, and he has plenty to occupy his brain (mostly PhD-type words that go far over my head). Even a love poem isn't worthy of the love I have for him -- especially because words fail me at the most critical moments, the moments in which being outspoken and poignant would be a huge boon. Sometimes it's difficult being an editor, one tied so closely to the written word. My verbal skills languish and dim until I sound like a stuttering fool. A stuttering, love-stricken fool, longing to find those secret words that have only been murmured by gods once upon a time when, they, too, were in love.

Now I understand the cliched poetic phrase "to give one the moon and the stars." Sometimes I feel like that they are the only gifts that truly express the expansiveness of my affection.

Happy V-day, Paul.

Phantasm is...

First things first. I am testing out the Blogger e-mail-to-blog feature ... so if this looks wonky, I will be fixing it in future posts. [Edit: It didn't work, apparently, so I am copy/pasting from my sent mail folder. Must look into this.]

Today, I hit level 32 in City of Heroes. ^_^ This means I got the power I've been waiting for since May: Phantasm. Phantasm is a "pet," but he's oh-so-much-more. He's this tall, flying being of light that has incredible energy blasts and makes me a powerhouse. Okay, so he doesn't really make me a powerhouse, because I still struggle against much harder guys. But compared to my pre-Phantasm fights, I'm dealing a lot more damage. In fact, I could probably even solo! (Woo-hoo.) And between all my "pets" (Phantasm, Phantom Army and Spectral Terror), I feel very protected indeed. :-)

Sorry I'm feeling and writing brainlessly. It's going to take me a while to get back to blogging -- in which I write down the useful, memorable things and discard the crap. Until I get to that point, you've got to filter through the crap looking for the useful stuff.

In honor of my Phantasm (for whom I am desperately seeking a name), I have decided to run "Phantasm" through Googlism.com. Here are the (partial) results:
phantasm is the story of a teenager who witnesses a really tall guy
phantasm is obviously using the marauders to collect all the masks
phantasm is a fantastic horror/science
phantasm is truly a child of don coscarelli
phantasm is
phantasm is the ending
phantasm is the fantasy and innocence lost and forgotten in our adulthood
phantasm is unquestionably a must
phantasm is outstanding
phantasm is; he basically looks like the grim reaper with a sickle gauntlet that has these cool smoke effects and disappearing acts
phantasm is incredibly flexible; with arts such as inspire a wraith can focus a human deeply on the religious overtones of life and art
phantasm is one of my all time favs
phantasm is an absolute tour
phantasm is presented at 1
phantasm is an effect
phantasm is jennifer
phantasm is a very interesting character
phantasm is far superior
phantasm is to be here/not here
phantasm is an aquired taste
phantasm is related to our intellect as that which is understood?
phantasm is the proper operation of the soul by virtue of its union with the body
phantasm is one of those
phantasm is reduced to 0 power
phantasm is the realization of who the real master of dreams is
phantasm is being prepared for the same career as the tall man

Adios, amigos, from my pets and me. ^_^

P.S. I fell off the face of the earth.

I took a two-and-a-half-year hiatus from my blog. It's true.

I graduated from college, got married, moved into my first apartment, got a job at a bookstore, got a job at a newspaper, moved into my second apartment, holed up for a year, started heavy medications for anxiety and panic attacks, moved into my first real house, and finally remembered my blog. Hey, no big loss. I mean, it's here for me and not anyone else, so if I manage to forget to update it for 30 months, who's going to notice?

Maybe it's an indication that life was really good. I don't mean that I've filtered everything through rose-colored glasses, although it's quite easy to look back on the last couple of years and realize things really weren't as bad as I thought they were at the time. But, really, if I was able to go for that long without keeping a diary-of-sorts (either on paper or online), then I must not have had anything terribly important to get off my chest.

Well, Paul's home with breakfast. I think he got McDonald's this morning. It's kind of become a ritual with us: Put off the grocery shopping each day by eating out all the time. He's very understanding, and we're both very lazy. No -- we're not "lazy." We just have different priorities than the rest of the world.

I mean, I can't complain. I've got a great husband, a wonderful job, an awesome home, and incredible friends. (Urp! I almost ran out of adjectives there!) I've got meds that keep my anxiety under control. I pay my bills, put off my errands, and play lots of video games. And you know what? It feels good. It feels good to be not-quite-25 and still a little bit irresponsible. I don't have pets and I don't have children -- and it's on purpose. I spent so much damn time in my life getting here -- studying my butt off, getting good scholarships, playing my piano all the time so I'd get better, reading all the time, constantly trying to improve myself.

And now, I'm happy just zoning for a while. Resting on my laurels. I'm finally satisfied with where I am, who I am and what I've got. So before my Type A-ness kicks in and drives me to strive for more, I'm going to go enjoy being me. Lazy, imperfect, anxious, cartoon-watching me.

Adios, amigos.