My hometown Kmart got condemned.

See, back in the day, the corporate Kmart folks made the mistake of buying land from shady Jimmy Collins. Now, everybody in town knows that Jimmy is a shyster. But the corporate types? Well, those city slickers didn't know. So, they bought the land for their store from Jimmy, who, of course, hadn't filled the land properly. It had previously been not a flat plot, but the Iowa version of a holler: steep and craggy.

So, Kmart built their store, and it was the location of many an important event. My 4-year-old self scored a play shopping cart there as a reward for not being a jerk for a week. It was also the first store I ever called, as 6-year-old me phoned Kmart to ask if they had Golden Dream Barbie in stock.

The Kmart had some accessibility issues. First of all, it was one of those stores that had all of its cassette tapes behind Plexiglas, so you had to ask the pimply kid with a key whenever you wanted to look at a tape. Secondly, pushing a cart in the store took skill, sort of the shopping equivalent of driving a stick in the mountains.

See, the floor of the store had peaks and valleys. You had to get a running start and pop a wheelie to get your cart over some of the steeper areas. It was a bit of a mess, but you just got used to it.

Well, the Kmart just was what it was - until a few weeks before Christmas, back in the day. The corporate Kmart folks came in with their engineering types. They took 1 look and promptly evacuated the building. Not just, "Hey, let's step outside," but more, "Holy blue light special, get out now!"

The store we'd all navigated with wheelies and patience was suddenly a little shop of horrors. No one was allowed back in the building without a hard hat and safety gear. That meant no Christmas shopping. And if you had Christmas layaway? You had to bail it out of a van in the parking lot.

So, eventually, they tore the condemned Kmart down. For the last 25 years, it's been an empty lot where semis park overnight. It's 1 of those things that just was ... it never occurred to me that a condemned Kmart was noteworthy.

What weird things did you grow up with that you're just now realizing weren't exactly, erm, normal?

So she painted on a smile and took up with some clown.

In the interest of full disclosure, I must tell you that some of the PTSD from my "Folk, Pop, Rock" class has worn off. Or, more accurately, BFF has remembered more of the songs we whisper-sang during that brief, shining moment in junior high.

See? This is why you have to stay friends with people who've known you forever. After a while, you collectively have one intact memory.

BFF remembered that our ragtag fake show choir sang "Side by Side," that "Oh, we ain't got a barrel of money" song from the 20s. And also, "Wouldn't it be Loverly" from "My Fair Lady."

OK.

But then? Just as she was drifting off to sleep, she remembered ... Baby cried the day the circus came to town.

Because ohmygod, we sang "Don't Cry Out Loud."

After I stopped having a seizure, I realized that my whole "Folk, Pop, Rock" flashback had come full circle, as Barry Manilow was Melissa Manchester's chum. So, that was nice.

But also? What the hell sort of advice is it to "Just keep it inside, and learn how to hide your feelings?" I asked my shrink, and she agreed that this song would definitely make it into a top 10 list of The Songs Your Shrink Hates Most.

Talking about your thoughts and feelings is good. Which is another reason why it's a good thing I resigned from Globotron.

Today, my group of tech writers was told that we desperately needed to hurry up and do some work that our manager has been putting off for weeks. Basically, it's your classic corporate fire drill - somebody didn't prioritize the work, we've been doing nothing, and now some higher-up wants the work, like, yesterday.

My manager insists that we don't have time to ask questions or get organized. I feared that my work wife was going to have a heart attack, she was so infuriated.

I spoke my peace, in which I was calm and smart. At no time did I actually say, "Oh, damn, I used to be a senior editorial manager and supervise this sort of project all the time and I am just handing you the knowledge of how to do it right," although that would have been accurate. And somewhat appropriate.

So, my polite version of that was met with a polite, corporate version of, "Sit down and shut up."

Don't cry out loud, indeed.

So, instead of daydreaming during my last 9 days at Globotron, I will do a somewhat mindless but very rushed task. And I will do it wrong, because that is my manager's explicit direction.

Marrying my husband was the single best choice I've ever made. Quitting this job is probably number 2.

Stop trying to crush my soul.

Oh, kids. Guess who reappeared in my life?

If you guessed Creepy Rajeev, you win a gallon of bad cologne!

Yes. Everybody’s favorite corporate close talker pinged me on LinkedIn.

It turns out that after the layoffs at Corporate Behemoth, Rajeev still hasn’t landed in a new spot. Honestly, I’m sure that’s rough, and I wouldn’t wish extended unemployment on anyone.

But if we’re being catty? I guess there aren’t a lot of openings for director of sexual harassment or chief undressing-with-eyes officer.

Yes, those are things.

The real kicker, though, is the title Creepy Rajeev listed on his profile: change leader in shared services improvement for performance excellence.

Yes. What the holy hell does that even mean?

That title perfectly encompasses everything that I find so repugnant about Corporate America. The scary thing is that I’ve been in Corporate America long enough that I can decipher the Corporateese. Basically, ol’ Creepy Rajeev is saying he pisses off people in IT and makes their departments run more efficiently ... more work with fewer people.

Yes, this is a thing.

But just because it’s a thing doesn’t mean I have to like it - or anything else about Corporate America.

I resigned from my gig at Globotron today.

I’ve been really down in the dumps. And bored. OhmyOprah, have I been bored. Like, can’t-even-pretend-to-have-something-to-do bored. The kind of bored that leaves you exhausted and incapable of doing anything after work except watch TV. We’re talking the bored that leaves you feeling atrophied as a human being. And depressed.

My poor husband. I’ve been kvetching about this for so long that he is damned well sick and tired of having the same conversation over and over again. He’s so sweet, he would never admit that, but I know it’s true.

So, we discussed. And discussed. And discussed some more. And I cried, and worried about being a burden, and the of-course-very-real fear that My Guy would find me to be a burden, fall for some hottie software developer at work, ditch boring ol’ unemployed me and then I would have to live in my Honda. With several dogs. One of which has supremely hideous gas right at this moment.

Now, besides the fact that my husband is a kind, generous soul, he also pointed out that he only works with dudes, and the term “hottie software developer” is an oxymoron.

We agreed that I would quit Globotron and finally acknowledge that Corporate America and I are so not meant to be together. I would go back to consulting - writing web and social media content for small businesses.

I decided that today - January 23, 2013 - would be the day that I stopped being afraid.

I tendered my resignation.

So far, the sky has not fallen. Although Big Doodle’s gastrointestinal distress might make you think otherwise, the world isn’t ending.

I promised my husband 3 things:

• I will stop being so unhappy. 
• I will not feel guilty for not having a traditional job. 
• I will not bring any more dogs into our household. 

I’m feeling fairly confident about most of these things.

So, today is the start of a new chapter. I gave my 2 weeks. I’m fantasizing about reorganizing my basement, shopping for groceries mid-day, and writing what I want to write.

I am thankful, somewhat in shock, and trying on this new confidence for size.

A true-blue spectacle.

This morning, Barry Manilow's "It's a Miracle" came on as I was getting ready.

Now, I am Not A Dancer. But if ever there were a song that screamed for a couple of 3-point turns, this is it. You know 3-point turns ... you sorta step to the side, flip around, take another step in which you flip back around, and end by clapping with your arms stretched out to the side? Think of the worst show choir move ever. This is it.

Yes, I was doing this hot move back and forth in my bathroom this morning, shakin' it to Manilow and thinking of BFF all the while.

Not only does BFF share my love of Manilow, but she also shares a deep, shameful secret. See, in junior high? We both, umm, were in this class? And this class was called "Folk, Pop, Rock?"

I think it began as being kind of a starter show choir, but there was something about the class description that made all sorts of non-musical kids sign up, thinking that this class would turn them into the next Debbie Gibson, and they didn't even need that pesky natural talent.

BFF and I played twins in a community theatre production of "The King and I," so we had some stage experience and musical ability. However, compared to everyone else, we were the freakin' Beyonces of this class.

We were in junior high, so we were shy. I mean, if you're living in an environment where the older kids can make you switch lunch tables and you're expected not to make a fuss, it's really hard to belt songs from "Mame," you know?

So, we kind of mumbled. We learned step-ball change, 3-point turns, and the basic ballet foot positions. The girls who generally made fun of us in P.E. were now Folk, Pop Rock classmates who were sort of impressed with our knowledge of Rodgers & Hammerstein. There was a strange, awkward peace.

However, we had to put on a show.

Now, mercifully for our tender junior high psyches, the show wasn't in front of the student body. However, it was in front of our poor parents. Mom? Dad? I'm sorry.

As I recall, we whisper-sang such amazing show-stoppers as:

• "Hey, Look Me Over" from, of course, "Mame"
• The Police's "Every Breath You Take," because a creepy song about stalking is completely appropriate for junior high girls
• "Kiss Today Goodbye" from "A Chorus Line"
• And, because it was so awesome the first time, a stirring encore of "Hey, Look Me Over"

I can sing, and I can sing loud. But it was so difficult to rise above the collective embarrassment of my classmates - me included. And I hate "Hey, Look Me Over," especially in situations where all I can think of is, "Please don't watch me do this incredibly dumb thing."

Did I mention that the school district didn't have an auditorium, and so this tour de force was staged in a gym? With the acoustics you might expect?

I just got through it. I think I sang OK. The performance itself couldn't have lasted more than 12 minutes, although it is seared into my brain as if it lasted several years. No one spoke of it afterward. For a long time, BFF and I acted like it never happened.

But now, much like war buddies, BFF and I can turn to each other for solace, and to find the humor in our shared ordeal. Me? I don't talk about Folk, Pop, Rock much. I don't even know if my husband knows about it.

As for BFF, she says that whenever she mentions the class to outsiders, they always look at her as if she were insane. Then, they ask what the hell kind of school district offers a class called "Folk, Pop, Rock." Then, BFF changes the subject, lest her acquaintances begin to judge her for where she's been, and the experiences that made her the woman she is today.

Me? I do 3-point turns in my bathroom, when no one is home. Then, I cry a single, stoic tear.

Support your local English teacher.

My sweet husband had this text exchange with his sister:

SIL: You should come visit me in Florida! March is good for me.
 
My Guy: (no response, because he was at work and it’s super cool when people tell you where and when to vacation)
 
SIL: We should go on a trip. How about a cruise?
 
My Guy: Cha Cha isn’t so hot on cruises.
 
SIL: Great! Let’s go!

He’s chalking it up to a lack of reading comprehension. I’m going to go along with that, as the alternative is just too much to process.

Landscaping, pregnancy, and dogs.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

No, not Arbor Day. The day the of my annual ladyexam!

Yep. Best day ever.

The good news is that my gyn is fast. Like a dueling cowboy, but with a speculum instead of a gun.

The bad news is that said gyn clearly focuses on being calm and delivering an “everything is going to be fine” message along with delivering babies. This means that my “We worked with a reproductive endocrinologist and decided not to be science experiments and things were totally messed up down there so I went back on the pill to normalize some shit” message was met with … kind of a blank stare. 

And then? Then, she said that if I went off the pill, I’d probably get pregnant.

Riiight. Because I haven’t already been on enough of an emotional rollercoaster. Thanks for that.

Without going into too many details … the ol’ fertilization is never going to happen for us. And while I’ve gotten the “relax and it will happen when you least expect it” message from lots of folks, I really didn’t expect it from my own doctor at this point in the game. Because if she looked at the records from the repro endo, she’d know there’s no “probably get pregnant” going on in this here oven.

After my appointment, I sat in my car in the parking lot and weighed the release of crying versus the mascara damage. I opted for intact eye makeup and a laissez-faire attitude.

I know my gyn doesn’t specialize in infertility. I know she wasn’t being malicious. She was probably making small talk. Tee hee!

I just have to close the “maybe this will happen” chapter. It’s just too brutal. I need to stop being so sensitive about, oh, stuff like my ladydoctor telling me I could catch pregnancy, like a cold. I need to focus on other ways to allocate my energies and - dare I say it - love.

I know you can’t really tell your gyn that you don’t want to talk about your ladybusiness, but to everyone else? Those acquaintances who figure we’ve been married for almost 2 years, and the friends who can’t quite wrap their heads around us saying no to invasive fertility treatments? To these folks, I say, “GET OFFA MY LAWN!”

Wherein “lawn” means “ladywomb.”

It occurred to me today that we should name our next dog Vern, after the hippie minister who married us. Because Vern is an awesome name for a dog, and it would be a compliment to our officiant. After all, it would mean we’d named our child after him.

Maybe this random thought is a sign.

Beauties and baked goods.

As I'm sure you know, this weekend was Miss America.

Since we hosted family this weekend and the people demanded NFL games, the pageant got DVRed. But I didn't watch it alone later, in shame. Oh, no. No, my husband actually requested that we watch it together because, and I quote: "It's fun to watch that stuff with you."

I guess my bipolar pageant disorder is entertaining. On 1 hand, I minored in women's studies and think it's shady that women are required to wear swimsuits as part of a "scholarship competition."

On the other hand? I am a catty, catty bitch. And my mom used to run our local Miss America pageant, and I love all pageants and know that Miss Mississippi used to be required to live for a year with pageant consultants before competing for Miss America and I also know how to tape boobs and Miss America is the only true pageant because it has a talent component and Miss USA is a ju-co dropout poseur and blah blah blah.

So, yeah.

We sat on the couch and commented on evening gowns and groaned at some questionable "talents." Then, I fell in love with My Guy all over again when he said, "I kind of hate the swimsuit competition. None of these women are attractive - they're all way too thin. I don't ever want to see your abs, OK?"

Well, if you say so. OK.

Then, to cement the deal as well as stay with the no-abs theme, he asked, "Is Miss Iowa's talent going to be making bars and frying up some tenderloins?"

Sadly, no. Miss Iowa was a hellova tap dancer and got 4th runner up. However, I'm sure she can also make hella-awesome bars.

Are bars a thing where you live? You know, bars - like, brownies, but not chocolate? What you take to a potluck or the church luncheon after a funeral?