Juliette Writers' Group Meeting

This was great. Click here for updated meeting.

July 19th @ 7:30 pm

Barnes & Nobles

1311 Nixon Dr.

Moorestown, NJ 08057

Join published writer Dawn Byrne as she leads the group in discussing: Non-traditional Heroes/Gender Role Reversals

Year III of Immunotherapy

I’ve begun a third year of immunotherapy (allergy shots). And this is the third post about my experience with this therapy.

My ENT suggests his patients make an appointment to see him in his office at the end of each year of regular allergy injections. Last year he performed a procedure in which he numbed my sinuses and explored them with a slim tool inserted up each of my nostrils. He was looking for polyps, and only noticed the remnants of my adenoids.

This year, my doctor found a polyp forming in my sinus. He prescribed the over-the-counter nasal sprays, Sudafed and Flonase, to keep the polyp from getting worse. 

Fatigue from everyday sinus issues inhibits my work production because it’s difficult to concentrate. Rainy days I experience added sinus pressure and something similar to depression that entices me to sleep during the day, adding to my struggle to function and be productive. The doctor agreed that pressure caused by the weather can produce this, and that the medication mentioned above should help with these symptoms too.

It’s raining today. My sinuses have taken over most of my face, making it squint, trying to find a comfortable position around dry eyes. I’m contemplating drinking a Mountain Dew to pick me up. But it’s not even ten o’clock in the morning. So onto the pharmacy for Sudafed because I’ve already been using Flonase.
I’ll post again about my results at the end of this year, which will be the end (I hope) of my allergies and shots.   

Juliette Writers' Group

                                    

This was great. Click here for updated meeting.


June 21st @ 7:30pm

Moorestown Barnes & Nobles

1311 Nixon Dr.

Cherry Hill, NJ 08057

Join published writer Dawn Byrne as she leads the group in discussion: Political Writing/Humor 

Night Shift Mommas

  

Rapidly keying for eight hours alongside rough-looking city mommas, who also worked the mole shift, I didn’t envy our supervisor. She presided over rows of tired women who processed data to earn medical benefits and enough money to pay taxes to the IRS, for whom we typed. The no-nonsense supervisor kept a serious face; our emotional connection to authority might lessen productivity. But the photos on her desk, next to a radio trailing earphones, made me suspected she was a momma like the rest of us. We worked at night to be available to our children during the day.

Amongst the monotonous hours, an occasional chuckle peaked into the air of the vast room.  Or, a co-worker’s random hum fell flat on a note from her headset that only she heard. Even though our supervisor didn’t walk the dark city streets alone from a bus stop to get home each night, she proved her grit by maintained our large, potentially noisy department.       

            After years at IRS, I moved to New Jersey’s suburbs. That meant no longer riding public transportation; buses to Jersey stopped running before the late shift ended. My first driving experience came with a dramatic Chevy Nova that refused to run when the mood struck it. Up and down the lines of IRS keyboards tipped my complains about the testy car.             

            Empathy showed on the faces of those enduring women as I clunked out of the gated IRS parking lot alongside their group crossing the boulevard to wait for the bus I once rode with them. The probability of the Tycony/Palmyra Bridge opening before I had a chance to cross it was high at that time of the night. My co-workers threw me a backwards nod as I sputtered onto the dangerous six lane Roosevelt Boulevard. But the next incident happened traveling from home the following afternoon. 

            My Nova stalled before reaching the middle of the bridge in rush hour traffic. The delicate vehicle didn't do well in the early September heat. My car's theatrics made me yell: "If I'm late, I’ll get a late slip." The thing was now a Jersey snob and refused to enter the Philadelphia side of the bridge. 

            Affronted when a police cruiser pushed it from behind over the bridge, the fussy car still agreed to take me the rest of the way to IRS, knowing I'd return to Jersey after my shift. 

            Late, I moved fast past the rows of whispering mommas. And approached our supervisor's separate, lone desk. Before I could explain, she grinned and said, "We knew you'd be late. We heard on the news that there was a disabled vehicle on the northbound side of the bridge."

            Rushing from the parking lot caused me to swallow a breath before replying, "Oh, yeah, that was me."

            My supervisor slapped the side of her metal desk and I jumped. Her raucous laughter caused the rows of woman to swivel their heads in our direction, still clicking their keys. Our superior cut off in mid-laugh and resumed typing, leaving me standing there. So I slunk to my monitor, realizing she hadn’t asked me to sign a late slip.

Yep, she was a momma.