My partner and I have a pretty good sex life but sometimes we don’t have sex for a week or more. For us — that’s a decen

Have I cheated on my partner? Nope. Has he cheated on me? I’m fairly confident it’s a NO, although I can never truly be sure. That’s where trust enters the stage. You’ve got to have it. If trust leaves the scene, the whole show fizzles out.

I’d worked myself into a tailspin. I wasn’t able to listen to podcasts — literally my only hobby — because I was made so anxious by the prospect of the making of the podcasts. I told my bosses — the ones who reminded me of my loyalty — that I needed help getting work done, that they needed to split my position, that I couldn’t do it all alone, that I wanted to have a family someday. They ignored me. Trump got elected. I started losing weight and losing my hair, deciding the way to grow it back was via these shark pills I heard about on the only podcast I could listen to, Bitch Sesh, which was made by a different network. The shark pills worked, but my pleas to help make this job workable fell on deaf ears. In retrospect, why would they want to improve the situation? They were getting multiple people’s jobs out of me, paying me one wage, and paying me the free lip service of how my loyalty would eventually benefit me. I spoke to an older colleague at the company about the issue, who said “they have a women problem.” I went out, got noodles, and started looking for another job.

It was my 30th birthday. I had a job offer at another company, one that seemed to be staffed with enough producers where I wouldn’t be the one person managing everything. I’d told my original boss about the job offer the day before and he stormed out of the building — left for the day. When I showed up to the office the next morning, the CEO of the company was in town from DC. They told me to come into a conference room. “This is how it’s going to go,” they started. I was to tell the staff — the majority of whom I managed — that I was leaving for personal reasons, and that I had great faith in the company’s future. Then, I would pack up my things and go. And oh, because I’m going to a competitor, I’d be stripped of the phantom equity that was allotted to me. “Procedure,” they said.

Because I was actually making a living wage and because I finally had dental insurance, I quickly determined that my entire life would live or die based on how I performed at this new podcast job. My entire identity quickly formed around my ability to answer emails at all hours, to attend meetings even if I was in the hospital (and to be scolded for not attending in person, after revealing my whereabouts), to come to work the day after getting married to record a podcast, etc.. To be invaluable. Not valuable, but invaluable. I needed this job more than it needed me, I thought, and literally couldn’t afford to lose it — financially, but also from an identity perspective. And after all, my then-bosses reminded me, you were the first employee. You were invested. I was also literally vested in some type of phantom equity no one quite understood. And, I had a lot of it, as the first employee.

But before Big Podcast. Before my well-tended graveyard. Before the anxious period as I waited to show up at your podcast company: I was 14 years old, burning audio onto CD-Rs from the website of WBEZ Chicago, my local public radio station, and listening to episodes of This American Life while shelving books at my local children’s library — a job I got after winning the children’s reading contest for as many years as it takes to get a job from winning the children’s reading contest. These were stories told from Chicago, near where I was. But, these stories, piped directly into my impressionable ears, were one of the first pieces of media that made me feel like there was a world outside of the small one that I knew. A world that was — without getting into it — a hard one for me to live in.

We go to the conference room. Everyone in the company is assembled — in person for those in New York, over video chat for those elsewhere. The staff knew it was my birthday. Some thought this was a birthday celebration. The CEO and my boss started the meeting by saying: “Laura has some personal news.” And then I did what was expected of me. I said I was leaving. For personal reasons. I have great faith in the company. The CEO said to the room that I’d be around for the rest of the day. As I exited the conference room he said, to me, “I think it’s time to go.”

And it has changed my life. Not to mention the listening and the being heard. That shit is real. That’s what I decided to devote my entire life to. I met my husband because he heard me on a podcast, too. It was great — I literally didn’t have to do anything!

In addition to introducing me to the pills made of shark that helped my hair grow back, listening to the podcast Bitch Seshwas like mainlining the saltine crackers I needed to convalesce, to remember why I left my entire family and all of my friends to try to work specifically in podcasting in the first place. It nursed me. I felt like I was hearing people who I’d want to be friends with — an expansion of my world, the experience that brought me to podcasts in the first place. I reached out to the head of content at the company that produced the show and told him that I thought that Bitch Sesh is what it is: a revelation. I applied for a job at the company that made it. I got the job. The fact that I was able to listen again, after several years of not listening, was all it took for me to know that this was where to go.

Do I find other people attractive and wonder what it would be like to have sex with them? Occasionally. Do I get jealous over my partner? Yes, sometimes I do. Do I let these things infiltrate my partnership? I try my absolute best not to.

I left the office carrying birthday gift bags from many of my colleagues. I slammed back a gifted ginger ale and threw the rest of them in the trash, in the subway station, and never returned to that subway stop again.

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ning: base query executed first, taking whatever it needs to compute the result R0. Second recursive query is executed taking R0 as input, that is R references R0 in the recursive query when first executed. Recursive query produces the result R1 and that is what R will reference to at the next invocation. And so on until recursive query returns empty result. At that point all intermediate results are combined together.

I’ve worked in Big Podcast for as long as one can work in Big Podcast (I think?). This isn’t something to brag about, but it’s true. An old boss called me the Zelig of podcasting. But I prefer to think of myself as the Beetlejuice of podcasting. I’ve been hanging around my model graveyard for the past 10 years, waiting for someone to say my name three times. After that happened, I’d show up to work at your company. And many of you, thank you, have come calling.

Do I find other people attractive and wonder what it would be like to have sex with them? Occasionally. Do I get jealous over my partner? Yes, sometimes I do. Do I let these things infiltrate my partnership? I try my absolute best not to.

I even, somehow, made it into a Prologue of a This American Life episode during this time. TAL was, to me, it — in terms of story-telling, but also in terms of a way out of the circumstances I was born into.

When I was 22, I left Chicago and moved to New York. No one in my family lives further east than Indiana. I didn’t know anyone. I had $700 and I wanted to figure out how to get a job at WNYC, New York Public Radio. I somehow got one of those freelance jobs that turned to permalancer that turned to, miraculously, a full-time job. When I was 27, I heeded my first call out of my podcast Beetlejuice graveyard, and got a job as the first employee at a then-new podcasting network.