extra pepperoni

Last night Phillip and I were discussing a very important matter: his pizza fund. Phillip's proclivity to order copious amounts of delivery pizza while I am away and then unsubtly tuck the empty boxes under the bed has not waned this year. Sadly, however, since I spent the better part of this year sick and/or recovering, my income has been, shall we say, non-toppings worthy. Moreover, as Phillip divulged to me last night, he's sick of Akon radio, which plays on a continuous loop when I'm working on the novel. (I'm sorry, I just can't write without Akon. Them's the facts. Akon, you'll have a special place on my acknowledgments page. Also --- and this is an aside --- it's just brilliant how Akon and his compatriots announce themselves at the beginning of their songs. "Akon! Konvict!" and then they begin singing. I'm going to start doing that at the beginning of each of my stories. "Kara!" and then begin.) The only way Phillip could see to fix these problems was if I went back to work: mo' money, less Akon. I couldn't have agreed more.

But as you know, my health situation is tenuous. I'm in remission, but my inflammation levels are sloooowwwly rising again. I'm committed to continuing on Tysabri past the one-year mark, since it's working for the time being, and there are no other treatments I haven't already failed. The risks of the medication continue to rise the longer I'm on it. And if I fail it, my only option left is surgery. Like, big-time surgery. Like, intestines and a colon free to a good home. They're very docile and love kids.

This is not the time to fuck around.

A few months ago, I applied for a very competitive teaching job that seemed perfect for me. I wouldn't do any lecturing, so I wouldn't have physically demanding days. In fact, I'd only have to be on campus once a week for office hours. My only job would be to help students with their writing. And it was at a private university that would finally pay me what I'm worth. Phillip endured weeks and weeks of application materials and interviews, sobbing PEPPERONI PLEASE and OSOS PARA PIZZA at intervals, and this morning --- miracle of fucking miracles --- they hired me. That's right: I'm going back to teaching.

It's not a conventional teaching job, not the kind of thing I want to do for the rest of my life. But it puts me back in the classroom doing what, in my humble opinion, I do best. (It's become apparent that a host of other things --- like laundry, car-washing, life-coaching, and swimming --- are not what I do best, so I've arrived at this by process of elimination.) And this year, away from teaching, was really sad for me. I gripe about the work, the idiocies of the students, the grading, the commuting, but the truth is that I don't feel happy when I'm not doing it. This job will allow me to be on campus only once a week, and do most of my work from home, so if I'm getting sick (or having a colonoscopy during business hours --- can't wait for October!) no one has to know about it.

It's good news in a year where I've been coming to terms with the fact that I may not be able to do all the things I always thought I would do, that my limitations might be more confining than I'd thought. That's probably still true. But sometimes, when you look hard enough for them, there are middle grounds. And in the best of circumstances, those middle grounds will net a pizza party for your favorite beardog. He's ordering a large one, with extra pepperoni.