CHARLESTON, W.Va. -- Why can't I have one of those cute nervous tics other people have? The twitching eye. The lovable stammer. Maybe that endearing back and forth shifting from left foot to right.

Why must my nervous tic be a stomach so vocal its fat-muffled cries of distress are easily audible to all within earshot? Why must mine be so gifted that to merely growl loudly isn't enough? Why must mine enunciate, too?

I admit I was anxious about starting my new job, though outwardly, I worked hard to maintain an air of calm confidence.

But my belly betrayed me.

"I'm sorry," said a new co-worker. "I didn't quite hear what you said."

"That's OK," I said. "It was nothing."

My gut disagreed. It spoke up again. This time in such a long, drawn-out manner that each of its many syllables could not ignored. Nor could they be understood.

It sounded as if it were saying, "Cheerios are evil. God save the queen."

Had it happened at home, my family would've marveled over my temperamental organ having managed the difficult Q sound, but my new co-worker looked more alarmed than impressed.

If I'd been faster on my feet, I might've made up something about studying ventriloquism, though I suppose I'd have needed a different explanation for the sounds that came next, which suggested the long, painful death of a miniature violinist.

Aside from my stomach, the transition to my new position has been fairly calm. Most of my new co-workers are still adorably innocent enough to not yet be prefacing personal stories with that pesky bit about this or that not being meant for publication.

There are times my head swims with all I'm needing to learn, with the rules that come with this strange new world, but I'm surrounded by helpful and good-humored co-workers who seemed genuinely determined to help me fit in and succeed.

I was given a key to the supply closet and told to get whatever I needed. I stood for ages in front of the open doors, staring at the loaded shelves like a hungry teenager before a fully stocked refrigerator. Afraid it was some kind of a test, I selected some Post-Its (there were five different sizes!) and a small box of clamps.

Perhaps best of all is that new-job smell. It might even be better than new-car scent, though it's been so long since my car smelled of anything but dog that it's hard to recall.

Not so wonderful, however, are the acronyms and initialisms I find myself having to learn. Is it really so hard to occasionally say a whole word? Does it save that much time to use just the initials? Government-speak can be confusing to newcomers.

Though not quite as perplexing as the language now being spoken by my intestinal tract.

Reach Karin Fuller via email at karinful...@gmail.com.