Roulette

A lot has been going on behind the dancingblog curtain. Mainly, I had an opportunity to interview for a position at not just one, but two companies in the last couple of months.

And I got one of them.

I wasn't actively looking for new employment, but I will now be saying goodbye to my current job and starting a new one in November. One of the best things about this job is that Mr. Zoom and I will be car pooling again. Actually, we will be working in the same company again - just on different floors and completely different departments.

I'd have taken this opportunity if Mr. Zoom didn't happen to work there. Although I'd have never known about it if he didn't. And the company seems to have not one single problem with us being married and working in the same office. AWESOME.

Some people are happy for us. Others think we will be divorced soon because of it. All I can say is that every one of the couples I know that has been divorced never worked together. So, I can't see that it's any more of a threat to marriage than snoring yetis and blanket burritos.

At least this way Mr. Zoom can keep a daily hand on my wheel of emotions. Makes it easier to knock it off of its spinner when it lands - a time or two too many - on the section marked "for every action (perceived or actual) there is a disproportionate and inappropriate reaction you've never seen before."

For any women out there who are young enough to believe you won't turn into your mother, I say "hang on to that dream as long as you can." For the rest of us, all we can do is hope the percentage of MOM is less than the percentage of US that takes over our daily consciousness.

I was discussing a project with a co-worker the other day. As is often the case, this person was NOT happy with the circumstances. Normally my interior ** dialogue goes something like "...uh, yeah...I'd be upset too. But he/she knows I can't change the circumstances. This isn't personal. I'll let them complain, then they can get on with the project."

That thought process was apparently too much trouble. Instead, this day I surrendered 1% of my SELF to Internal MOM who thought...

"Why is this person giving me LIP?"

I'm pretty sure that in the dictionary, the word LIP - when used as slang (a synonym? metonym?) for back talk or sass - has one of those little "WE CARD!" stickers you see in liquor stores. "Unless you were born before 1906, knit pet sweaters and eat dinner at 4pm, we cannot lawfully allow you to use this word. Be prepared to show proof of your age."

Mr. Zoom is lucky. All he ever worries about is getting to an age where it's ok to tuck his shirt into his shorts. He's asked me to intervene if this happens. Ok, easy enough.

But who is going to pull my MOMshirt out of MY SHORTS? Sure, I've asked him to intervene - knowing full well that when he says "You are acting like your mother", the wheel of emotions will spin. And the pointer will rest on angrybittercrying wife.

I guess I'll know what he's trying to tell me if he says we need to talk and he's wearing all of his ice hockey goalie gear. And swinging a stick.

**Update after posting...INTERIOR dialogue? Really? It doesn't even have as many syllables as INNER. Maybe it is time to take up knitting pet sweaters.