The Poop House Chronicles (Part Six): "The monkey house..."

I was recently watching an episode of Project Runway season 4 where Tim Gunn visited the designers in their homes to discuss the progress they had made while working on their collections away from the cameras. One of the designers had adorned his line with human hair. Like most of us Tim Gunn was repulsed by the idea of human hair as part of the clothing. When trying to talk the designer out of using the hair, he noted that it was kind of like the monkey house at the zoo. The designer gave him a perplexed look. Tim explained, (I'm paraphrasing here, but using quotes anyway... But it helps if you read it in that Tim Gunn voice, if you know who Tim Gunn is and what he sounds like.)

"Well, when you first walk into the monkey house at the zoo, and you smell it in there, you think to yourself, 'Disgusting! I can't believe anyone wants to go in here!' And then after twenty minutes or so, you start thinking, 'Well it's really not all that bad.' And if you stay in there an hour you don't even notice it anymore... I think it's the same way with this design, you've lived with it this long, so now you don't even notice the disgusting part. But if there's someone who is just now coming into the monkey house, to them it's still disgusting."

Tim Gunn was onto something. If you've lived with something foul for so long, you probably do become desensitized to it, and even get comfortable with it. That is the only rationale I can come up with for the folks who actually LIVED in the poop house. But as someone who merely ventured in for a small portion of the day I can tell you that there is no desensitizing for the normal folks. Even if you can handle being in the place for twenty minutes, (HIGHLY UNLIKELY for most normal folks,) the smell doesn't go away, and at no point do you find yourself saying "It's really not all that bad!" As someone who spent more time than I care to remember, and more time than anyone should ever spend in that toxic waste dump, (sometimes more than 2 hours a stretch,) I can tell you that I never got used to it, and from the second I walked in until the second I was home and fully showered, sanitized and scrubbed, I choked on every breath I took. And even as I would sit at home after my shower, with the laundry running, and my hair washed and dried, most evenings I would still psychosomatically itch and get chills of disgust from the mere IDEA that I'd been exposed to that foulness. And while I sat there, itching despite being clean, I would ponder. And the more I thought about it, the less I was able to wrap my head around it. The residents of the poop house DID venture out on occasion. Mitch told me he went to group therapy sessions, little Millie went to a state sponsored head start program, and from what I gathered, mom had a job. This means that they went out and functioned in some of the better smelling parts of the world around them, and upon returning home, one would think that the foul odor of their residence would assault them the same way it brutalized any other person... One would think that upon noticing that your home smells worse than say, oh, I don't know, a city dump perhaps, that one would be inclined to do something to remedy the situation. Even a mediocre remedy such as purchasing an air freshener or two, or, dare I say CLEANING UP the direct causes of the festering foulness seemed totally unheard of to these folks... Like I said, I was BAFFLED by the concept of remaining in the proverbial monkey house when you have to be aware of the stench and yet, not doing a damn thing about it.

I knew I'd have to go back again. And the stench haunted me even when I wasn't there.

The day after my initial meeting with Mitch, I knew I'd have to go back later to actually see the child, and to meet "mom."

I called up state case worker Dave.

"Hey, Dave! Met with our favorite clients last night."

"Oh, yeah? How did that go?"

"Disgusting. Naturally... There is just no way that that house meets minimum standards."

"Well, actually it kind of does."

"How is that possible? You had to go in and inspect the place before they ever got Millie back from foster care. How did they pass?"

"Well, they had food in the house, and there wasn't anything structurally wrong where she was going to fall through a gaping hole in the floor or anything, and they have functional utilities, so technically it made the cut. I wasn't happy about it, but I had to sign off on it."

"You're kidding me! The menagerie of animals in that place, and all the poop and garbage and bugs didn't disqualify that rat hole?"

"Technically, no."

"Well, that's tragic... Seriously... But speaking of the bugs, I was talking with Mitch and he seemed to think that you had something in the works to deal with that roach situation they've got going on in there. Care to comment on that?"

"Well, yeah, I've been talking to my supervisor about getting some waiver money to get an exterminator or something in there."

"Personally, I'd opt for a wrecking ball."

"Yeah, but the waiver money hasn't come through yet, so you might want to just tell them to get some spray and try to control it that way."

"That place is so far beyond spray! If those bugs can thrive so well in the toxic fumes of that house on a daily basis, I don't think any kind of chemicalized bug spray is going to do much good."

"Can't really hurt though."

"I guess not."

"I'll get back to you on the waiver money progress when I've got something to report."

"Thanks... Oh, wait, what about all the animals?"

"What about them?"

"There's got to be some kind of statute saying that they have too many, right?"

"Well, I don't know. I'll look into that. I don't know if there are set numbers anywhere on the books, and to be honest I've never been able to get a solid count of all the animals."

"If the roaches count, it's too many! Hell, even if the roaches don't count, it's too many!"

"Well, I'll take a look at the books and see if there are any limits."

"Fair enough."

And that was that. The house was technically structurally sound, although I suspect that the structural integrity of the place really just consisted of the roaches holding hands to keep the place upright. They had food and utilities in the house... That was enough to make the grade. Tragic but true.

Knowing that Dave was unable to get a solid count on the animals living in the house, I figured this would be an interesting endeavor the next time I went into the poop house... Incidentally, it was to be later that same day!

So I went about my regular daily business. I saw all of my other unappealing clients first, and then drove over to the least appealing clients of all. As I put the car in park, turned off the engine and looked at the house, I turned, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, (knowing it would be my last for the day,) sighed heavily, cursed under my breath, shuddered, and went to face the beast...

I walked up the cracked front walk, uneven from the tree roots which had burrowed underneath when the trees were still alive, (they were long since dead and lopped off at odd levels somewhere above the 8 foot mark). I breathed less deeply with each passing step, as the odor intensified the closer I got. I went up the three crumbling steps to the garbage-cluttered porch. I knocked on the once-white, now dingy beige door. The dogs barked. A chill went up my spine. I heard someone approach the door from the other side. I heard a woman's voice yell at the dogs to shut up. The lock disengaged. And a genuinely large woman stood winded before me as the door opened. I marveled at the fact that she could be winded, because I knew the dimensions of the house, and knew that there were no stairs nor exercise equipment in the home... She couldn't possibly have walked more than 60 feet. There was no place in the house further than 60 feet from that door... And 60 feet is probably pushing it. It was far more likely that she'd been parked on her sizable rear end on the couch, a mere 30 feet from the door. Yet here she was, totally winded like she just finished running a half-marathon.

I knew this was "mom." I knew her name from the info sheet I'd gotten from the office. We'll call her "Martha." Martha, as you may have already guessed had a pretty significant weight problem. I'm by no means a small girl, but next to her, I'd have been considered Allegra Versace. (Google it if you don't already get the reference.) Seriously. This woman was no taller than I am at 5'7" and HAD to be tipping the scales at well over 400 lbs. I wish I were kidding... Once I got a good look at her, I understood why she was winded after hauling that load off the couch and walking all of 30 feet to the door... Lugging that around would wear me out too! When the wonder about her windedness wore off, (whoa, alliteration!) I marveled that she was in real clothes, and not the mumu which is stereotypically sported by women this size.

"Uhmmm, hello, Martha?"

"Yeah. I'm Martha."

"Hello, Martha, I'm Liz. I'm Julie's replacement."

"Oh. Hi."

"Yeah, hi. Ok, so you know why I'm here."

"Yeah."

"Ok, well, since this is my first time meeting with you, I need you to sign a consent form saying that you understand that I'm here because you're involved with the department of child services, and that any information I get from you, or from coming to your home can be shared with your state case worker."

"Ok. You got a pen?"

"Yes I do."

(Knowing that she lived in the poop house, and knowing the likelihood that she probably hadn't washed her hands in 6 months, I opted to let her keep that ten cent bic pen.)

"Ok, so I got a fair amount of information from Mitch when I was here yesterday. I'd like to ask you a few questions too, just to round out the picture. Would you mind joining me out here on the porch for a few minutes?"

"Well, Millie is in her room, but Mitch is in the kitchen... He can watch her."

[At this point she yelled something unintelligible to me back into the foul recesses of the house, but I assume it was letting Mitch know that she was meeting with me on the porch, and that he needed to watch Millie.]

"Ok, so Mitch tells me that you're working, where are you currently employed?"

"Domino's Pizza."

I'm sure that my horrified expression was laid bare as I tried to compute this new information... Fortunately, being totally spoiled by the delights of Chicago style pizza, and never having been a fan of Domino's, I could not recall having consumed Domino's Pizza any time since I'd left Chicago... And I certainly haven't had it since learning of their star staff member! (I think it's fair to say that I'm ruined on the concept of EVER eating a food product from any franchise where I know a poop house resident has worked.)

"OH... Uhhh... OK. Domino's Pizza. And how many hours a week would you say you work in a week?"

"Well, usually thirty or so, but we've been really busy lately, so probably closer to 40 or 50."

Again, I was horrified. I think people should know when someone comes from the poop house to prepare the food you're ordering... And if they're logging 30 or more hours a week there, then that's a whole lot of tainted pizza and breadsticks!

"Ok. So you're there quite a bit..." (I couldn't think of anything else to say)

"Yep."

"And I imagine that most of that time is in the afternoons and evenings, so I'm guessing that Mitch is really the primary care giver here while you go out and work."

"Yep."

"Ok... Well, I did talk to your case worker earlier today, and we chatted about the issues in this case."

"Ok. What did he have to say?"

"Well, it's pretty evident to all of us that you guys have a pretty significant bug problem."

"Yeah. He was talking about getting an exterminator for us, but he hasn't done that."

"Well, that's what we discussed. He told me that the waiver money to cover the costs of an exterminator hasn't come through yet, so in the meantime he wanted me to ask that you consider getting some bug spray and trying to at least attempt to manage the problem that way."

"Well, I don't get paid until next week... But I'll look into getting some spray when I get my check."

Another shiver ran up my spine at the thought of her being so nonchalant about the bug situation, and letting it persist for at least another week.

"Ok, another issue he wanted me to discuss with you was the number of animals you have living here. Exactly how many are there?"

"Well let me see... There's 5 dogs."

"Five! Oh! I'd only seen four."

"No, we've got five in there."

"Uh-huh... And how many cats?"

"I think probably eight or nine."

"Probably? You don't know?"

"Well, we can find out."

"How is that?"

"We can feed em."

"Oh."

Instantly my heart sank, my stomach quivered, and my gag reflex fought to be heeded. I knew that since none of the animals ever went outside, I'd be forced to go in to get a count during feeding time.

"Well, let's go in... Oh, and you can meet Millie."

"Lovely..."

And in we went.

I followed Martha through the close quarters of the front room, through the maze of little dung heaps on the floor, through the putrid den area, and into the more open area of the kitchen.

Martha stood a few feet from me, close to the kitchen sink heaped with dirty dishes... It was at this point when I got my first really good look at her, despite having spent the previous few minutes talking to her on the front porch. She was roughly my height, every bit of the 400 pounds I initially figured her for, and every bit as disgusting as her husband. This was clearly not a case of opposites attracting. She wore no shoes or socks, which repulsed me because I knew the state of that carpet, dirty khaki pants, a stained t-shirt with partially ripped off pocket on the chest area, and CLEARLY wore no bra despite her size. She had yellowish-brown teeth which bore all the tell-tale signs of decay and hard living with no dental care. Her complexion was pale and lightly freckled, including all three of her chins, and she had long, stringy, greasy brown hair which seemed to be pulled back in a ponytail, as a means of prolonging her time between showers. It was evident that hygiene was never a strong suit for anyone in this family... And when one combined this revelation with the state of the home, it really didn't come as any genuine shock.

She yelled something unremarkable in the general direction of Mitch and Millie, and then addressed me.

"You want me to feed em?"

"Well, um, if that's the only way to get them together to count them, then I guess."

"OK! Watch this! ...Oh, you might want to move away from the door there."

I sidestepped slightly to a more interior part of the room, and slightly away from the door, looking rather puzzled as I didn't know why this was necessary.

Martha then grabbed a tupperware bin the size of a large stock pot, and shook it.

In an instant, cats came darting through the kitchen door from all directions, sprinting to the feeding area with all the fervor of refugees greeting a truckload of food and supplies.

Martha cackled at this.

"See why I told you to move away from the doorway?"

"Uhh... Yeah."

I marveled at the number of cats. And as they vied for a prime spot at the food dishes, and writhed around each other, I attempted to count them. And when I was through counting them, I was in disbelief at the number I'd tallied and began counting again figuring that some of them had to have moved around and gotten counted twice... The second and third counts were the same.

Fourteen.

THEY HAD FOURTEEN CATS AND FIVE DOGS.

"Umm, you said you only had eight or nine... by my count, you guys were way off! I see fourteen!"

"No! There's no way we've got fourteen!"

"Well, they're your cats, and they're all here... Count them for yourself. Name them off... I'm seeing fourteen."

"Well, there's Sable, Pretty Boy, Fancy Face, Pearl, Precious, Midnight, ...."

The names were rattled off. All fourteen of them. Many were rattled off two or three times because they would lose track of who had been counted on their extended fingers, and who hadn't. Meanwhile, I stood aghast that anyone could have fourteen cats at all, let alone in such close quarters, and that all fourteen had names, yet even the family couldn't fathom that they actually had fourteen cats.

Having been stirred up by the cavalcade of cats streaming by, Mitch and Millie had come into the kitchen... I was about to meet Millie.

The Poop House Chronicles (Part Five): Into the fray...

I apologize for the lengthy break... Shit has been going down lately, and I just couldn't deal with the poop house in addition to everything else that's been going on. I hope that you haven't given up on getting all the gory details, because we're about to delve into the real heart of darkness.

When we left off, I was standing on the front porch of the poop house, talking to the resident male. He'd informed me that the mother and child were not home at the moment. I knew I was going to have to go in anyway, and I was dreading it.

I stood there, trying to deal with the stagnant sewer smell, and trying to figure out how I was going to deal with the worse smell that I knew lurked in the house.

I asked him a few routine questions to determine the best way to shape my services for this family.

"Ok, Mitch, are you working at the moment?"

"No. I hurt my wrist at work a few years ago, and haven't gone back to work since."

"I see. Are you on disability?"

"No. I've been trying to get it, and I've talked to a lawyer but he thinks it will be a year or two before my case goes through."

"Ok, so you're not generating any income. I know you've been working with Julie up until now, did she put you in touch with any of those other resources that you can use so that you're able to get by while you're not working?"

"Yeah."

"Ok, what are you currently using?"

"Well, I go to the food banks. We can't get welfare because the case is still open from when they took 'Millie' (psuedonym for the child) away. I go to the community outreach clinics when I get sick, and when I go to group."

"Group?"

"Yeah, I go to group for depression."

Mentally, I simply thought that if this was my life I'd be depressed too... I'd have offed myself long before I'd ever have let my home look or smell like this, but depression was a given.

"Ok, so how is that going for you? Are you getting any kind of results?"

"Well, no. I used to have individual sessions too, but my counselor stopped doing that because the state said I'd reached the limit."

"Ok. So if you're at least getting into group sessions, you're meeting with someone who knows what is going on... And are you medicated at all?"

"Nope. Can't afford it. I had some stuff when I went to the individual sessions, but now that I only have group I can't get it."

"Ok... I might be able to help you with some resources to get meds if they are something that your group therapist is willing to prescribe... Is your group leader a prescribing therapist, or just a group counselor?"

"They've got somebody who can prescribe something. I just haven't talked to them since I only have group."

"Ok. And how often do you have group sessions?"

"Well, they meet once a week, but I haven't been in about a month."

"May I ask why you haven't been?"

"Too busy."

"Hmmm... Well, forgive me for asking this so bluntly, but you're too busy doing what exactly?"

"Well... Uhhh..."

"I'm sure that you have things to do, but I'm asking because it is important that you take care of your mental health just as much as, say, going to the doctor for a broken arm... If there is something wrong, and someone can help you fix it so that it heals properly, then it is important to take the time to go and get that help, don't you think?"

"Yeah, but I've just been to busy to go lately."

"Ok, well, I'd like for you to work on figuring out a workable schedule so that you can get your other things done too, and still make it to your group meetings. I mean I'm not a therapist, but I think if you have a diagnosed problem then it is very important that you set aside the time to work on it, don't you?"

"I guess so."

"Well, I don't mean this to be offensive, but you're not currently working, so that right there frees up 40 hours a week... Your group lasts what, an hour? Two maybe?"

"An hour."

"Ok, well, then you need to consider setting aside that one hour for yourself, and doing everything else that you need to do during the other 39 hours. I mean I'm not trying to tell you what to do with every minute of your day, but we're talking about one hour a week that someone thinks you need. And if you didn't think you needed something, you never would have been going in the first place, would you?"

"I guess."

"Well, I just want you to try. And in fact, I'll tell you right now, that that's all I'm ever going to ask of you. I'm telling you right now that I'm not going to come into your house and fix all this for you. You've got to be the one putting in the time and effort to TRY to make things better."

"Well, I appreciate that. Julie would just get mad at us and holler at us for not getting stuff done."

"Well, I'm not saying that I won't expect results. I do want to see progress. But I also know that Rome wasn't built in a day. You all didn't get into this mess overnight, and it's not going to get better overnight. I'm going to work with you guys, and I know that this is going to take some time and some real work, but the fact is that if this was all good, I wouldn't have to be in here telling you what's what... Obviously I'm here, so you've got some work to do. I want to make this as quick and painless as possible, but that's going to mean some effort on your part. You with me on that?"

"Yeah. I got it. So you're not just going to get mad at us like Julie?"

"Well, if I see that you're putting in a fair amount of effort, I'll be willing to keep working on improving things with you... But if you're not holding up your end of the deal, I'm telling you right now that I'm not going to be willing to work any harder than you are! So if you get the work done, then things are good, and I stay off your case, but if things aren't getting done, then I'll be mad and you'll hear all about it!"

"Sounds fair."

At this point the dogs in the house seemed to have found other things to do, and other patches of carpet to shit on, because they had lost interest in barking at us through the screen door. Realizing that the dogs were otherwise occupied, that I'd already been smelling the foulness from the relative safety of the porch, and that the quicker we went in to see the situation in the house, the sooner I could get home and shower... I told him that as part of my job I'd have to see the inside to make sure that things were "acceptable" (although the state and I have VERY different ideas of what qualifies as acceptable) and I'd probably be on my way shortly.

We went in. And the instant that the screen door was flung open, the wall of stench hit me like a nuclear shock wave. It took every fiber of my being to not recoil and run the opposite direction, or to vomit on the spot. I girded myself as the wave of nausea swept over me and took hold. I choked on what little breath I was able to take. And as I looked down to see the four little dogs running around my feet, barking at me and snarling at each other, I noticed four fresh piles of dog poo within two feet of the door... Most likely left there while the little beasts were originally barking through the door during the conversation on the porch.

As my vision panned upwards, I noted that very little, if anything, had changed since my original foray into this hellhole several months prior. If Julie had gotten any results at any point in the meantime, it couldn't be detected now.

On the desk to the immediate left of the door was still a mess of papers, some of which had evidence of urine and feces on them. In the makeshift bedroom setup, the clothes and garbage were still heaped up to be level with the mattress, and in some areas it was higher than the level of the mattress, which itself looked ever more defeated and begging for a quick exit into a dumpster. Without any sheets on the mattress, it was readily apparent that the animals had repeatedly used the bed as a stomping ground and makeshift litter box. One pile of dung on the upper reaches of a boxy particle-board headboard appeared to have been there for quite some time as it was dried out and crusted in place. I'm convinced that if an inanimate thing, (in this case, another pile of dog shit) - if the other pile of dung, which rested almost dead center on the mattress, could've smiled, it would have. It was fresh and chilling in the middle of the bed... It was a self-satisfied little pile of dung which had just lucked into some prime real estate!

I noticed to my right that cats were climbing up, and over, and through the assorted piles and entanglements of various dumpster delicacies which were heaped in this front room. I counted three or four... One couldn't be sure, and lord only knows what else was living in those piles. I followed Mitch through the cramped den area, into the more open kitchen area.

Once in the kitchen, the bug problem in the home became much more apparent... It was readily evident in the rest of the house, but I'd focused on attempting to count animals and trying not to step in the numerous piles of dung, haphazardly laid out on the carpet like smelly, disgusting land mines. I asked Mitch about the dishes in the sink, and why they weren't done.

"Well, I was going to do them, but I just got too busy."

"Busy doing what? That's on your chore list that Julie made you put up right there... And that list says you've got to do the dishes and clean as you go."

"Well... Ok. I'll do them. Are you going to stand here and watch me do them like Julie?"

"Not today... But if I come back tomorrow and they're still there, then yeah I'll make sure they get done if it means standing here while you do them... Besides, don't you think a sink full of dirty dishes contributes to this cockroach situation you've got going on?"

"Well, we were going to get a can of spray, but we just didn't..."

"No offense, Mitch, but I think a problem like this is going to take a lot more than just a can of spray."

"Well our case worker, Dave, said that he was going to see if he could do anything, but we ain't heard anything back about that."

"I'll talk to him and see what I can find out."

"Ok."

"And what about those other chores on the list? Number one says pick up the poop and keep the litter box clean... I have seen all kinds of poop, including a few piles out here in the kitchen floor. That's one I will have to stand here and make sure you do, because I can't leave here knowing that there's poop on the floor when you tell me that your kiddo is coming back here later tonight."

So Mitch went through the house with a roll of toilet paper and picked up the poop one disgusting pile at a time, often needing me to point out piles he would have missed otherwise. I then noted that I needed to see the child's room. I needed to make sure that Millie had an "acceptable" bedroom situation... And since we knew that cleanliness wasn't something that factored into the state's definition of "acceptable" I was really just hoping to just peek in the door and not see a child-sized cage. As Mitch opened the door to Millie's bedroom, I thought I was going to faint, and if it hadn't been for my extreme fear of ending up laying in a heap of animal dung with roaches crawling all over my face while passed out, I probably would have... Because although I didn't think it was possible, when he opened the door to her bedroom, the smell worsened.

It is difficult to describe, and for as much as I know that I have not done justice to the original stench, but this new odor was a different kind of disgusting. It was hard to keep the chunks rising in my throat in check, and all I could bring myself to focus on were the small brown roaches climbing on the wall near the door frame. The odor which poured out was intensely acrid, reeking of that ammonia-like cat urine smell. Beyond the initial wave of ammonia was a sickly sweet smell, I couldn't place it, but whatever it was, it hung thick in the air in this room.

Once I was able to blink away the moisture in my eyes generated not only by the intense urge to vomit, and the overwhelming ammonia which had caused my eyes to burn, I looked inside. Needless to say, I was not pleased. I noticed an additional three cats which I hadn't seen before. Apparently they'd been confined behind that door for quite a long while. Since the time of their original confinement, they'd pissed and shat all over that room. I noticed at least six piles of crap on the floor, and told Mitch to go get his roll of toilet paper so that those could be cleaned up as well.

It took Mitch a few moments to locate his roll of toilet paper somewhere in the mess elsewhere in the home. During those moments, I noticed the rest of little Millie's room. Along the wall to the left of the door was a sad little twin bed with no sheets on the disgusting greyed mattress. There was a headboard with empty little cubby holes which had once had doors that had long since been ripped off. There was a small table with broken toys and clothes heaped on it, which sat in front of a closet which had a curtain instead of a door, and a large heap of clothing spilled out onto the floor. It was readily apparent that the cats had been hanging out on that pile of clothing and they had no problems shitting where they sat. Panning further to the right, there was a small desk, again covered in cat shit, dirty clothes, and broken toys. In the far right corner there was a chest of drawers with a small television on top. The drawers were haphazardly pulled out, and articles of clothing spilled from one drawer into the next. Piles of filthy stuffed animals and more broken toys littered the floor around the base of the chest of drawers and led the eye back around to the right hand side of the door. I noticed that the walls were randomly marred with crayon graffiti in shades predominantly of green and brown. There were no pictures, merely tangles of lines and odd shapes drawn in colors which most children would likely have discarded when opting for pretty colors when drawing pretty pictures of their pretty houses... That said, these colors and these tangles of bizarre forms fit right in.

Mitch picked up the dung in the room. I told him that I wanted to see serious progress in cleaning up this room first. I instructed him that the laundry needed to be done, and that the clothes needed to be put away properly either in the closet or in the chest of drawers so that they remained clean, rather than ending up covered in cat excrement. I told him that if the bed was in that kind of shape underneath, the least that they could do was to put clean sheets on it, and if they didn't have sheets that they needed to at least cover it with a blanket tucked in on all sides. I told him that the smell was an issue, because there was no way that constantly inhaling all that concentrated ammonia smell could be good for little Millie. I asked him to try to air the room out and not confine animals in there if at all possible. I listed a few other chores for him to take care of, and having reached well beyond my limits of tolerance for this kind of olfactory punishment, I departed. I got to my car and upon seeing the front door close with Mitch securely on the other side, I hacked and wretched and struggled to catch my breath.

As soon as I opened my car door, I reached in and got the bottle of hand sanitizer and bathed my hands thoroughly, despite the fact that I couldn't recall touching anything. I considered what else I needed to soak in the stuff before actually getting in and starting my car. I took off the soon to be infamous "poop shoes" and placed them back in a bag which I'd set aside for this purpose. I put on the shoes I'd worn to all my other appointments, got into my car, resoaked my hands in purell, knowing that I'd just touched the "poop shoes," (even though the handling was minimal, and I had been VERY VERY careful to only touch the upper portions of the shoes,) and proceeded to drive home the quickest way I knew, all the while finding that I could still smell the offensive odors of that house on myself. As soon as I was inside my front door, I stripped down and put the clothes directly into the washing machine on HOT and ran to take the most ridiculously hot and scrub-tastic exfoliating shower you can imagine... Little did I know that this was to be a near-daily ritual for the next NINE MONTHS.

Someone Asked...

When last I posted, someone asked in the comments what I was up to rather than composing the next poop house chronicles post. Well, here's the answer.

I've been applying and interviewing like a rational person, and contemplating my birthday like a fool.

I went for two interviews on Thursday. The first one seemed promising via phone, but the second I walked into the building I KNEW it was suspect. From the muzak being pumped into the next room to the fact that they were willing to interview guy wearing ratty jeans and a polo, the second I walked in the front door, I knew that this ended badly. I stayed in the office, despite the fact that I already knew where this was going.

I talked to the receptionist. She seemed somewhat short of completely vapid and devoid of information. She complimented my watch. I assumed since she realized it was an expensive watch, she wouldn't lead me awry without divulging information about the situation into which I was being introduced. A moment later, I was greeted by the gentleman who had called and recruited me to this facility. He greeted me warmly, and asked fairly pertinent questions... He then stated that someone else would be leading a group presentation. This was the giveaway. Trying to be polite, and knowing that I didn't have to be at my next appointment for another couple of hours, I sat, I listened.

Before the schpeil even began, I knew what was coming. And despite being seated in the second row, I could tell that there was at least one other person who also knew, but remained seated as well. At this point a fairly attractive female came to the front of the room and began speaking. She talked about the growth in the "wellness industry" and she talked about the company foundations, and the benefits of direct marketing. She then noted that we would not be expected to do direct marketing.

SHE LIED.

After the conclusion of her initial speech, and her powepoint presentation, it was more than a little bit clear that this was a pyramid scheme. And not only that, it was a pyramid scheme in which they lured people to presentations, based on the possible promise of a REAL job, but upon which the were preying on the dumb, and using them for their personal information and contacts. Not being dumb, I sat through the inital presentation politely... As did the person in front of me who I also previously mentioned I did not find to be completely stupid. As soon as the lights resumed normal levels of functionality, she stood up, as I did, and she walked to the guy who talked us both into showing up. She noted that this idiocy wasn't for her... Although she used more polite terms. She walked out. I then spoke to the guy myself. I noted that much like the girl before me, this also was not for me. He tried to talk me into staying, and tried to talk me into making the initial investment in the company, if not as a sales rep, then as a customer!

For the bargain price of only $165.95 I coud buy FIVE whole bottles of their product to convince myself of their results! Needless to say, I laughed in his face and said, "No, I think you have me confused for an imbecile. I will not be buying your product, nor will I be selling it for you. I hope you and your hype have a nice day, because you'll be doing it without me."

He tiried to talk me into staying to talk to other people in the office. He tried to talk me into spending money to become a customer so that I became convinced as to the effectiveness of the product he wanted me to shill. I informed him that I was much more concerned with paying my bills and obtaining a REAL JOB as opposed to earning him a commission in a pyramid scheme. I then walked out, following the girl who preceeded me.

I'd like to think that the other 30 people in the room were merely plants solely designated to convince either myself or the other girl that this was something real, but I get the distinct impression that most of them were actually, rather stupidly, convinced by a poorly constructed powerpoint and an only mildly engaging speaker that this was a legitimate job opportunity.

I'd LOVE to think that the second that both the other girl and I were out the door that all the other people in the room were instantly deflated and waiting for the next crop of people to come in the door, but I think a lot of them were legitimately stupid enough to stay on and be conned out of their hard earned money. Either way, it's not my problem.

After I departed from that shit show, I found that I'd wasted barely enough of my time to preclude me from engaging the girl who'd left before me merely by circumstance, and I was left with more than enough time to get to my next interview.

I went to the next interview, I interviewed well, used the poop house in answer format to convince her that I knew what the hell I was doing, while leaving out enough details so as not to terrify her, and I think I got myself a job... Knock wood.

In the meantime, I celebrated a birthday.

I tried to talk to someone with whom I used to have romantic entanglements, in order to celebrate the day properly, but that fell flat on its ass. I talked to my mother who celebrated appropriately that I was no longer in her uterus all these years later, and I'm hoping that at some point this weekend my best friend/roommate will come home to assist me in getting properly drunk and making this birthday count.

But I will say this... No matter what happens on my birthday, this is probably the best one I've had in several years, largely because despite being single, and no matter what the bank balance reads, nor what the other "standard measurments of happiness" say, I have found that I am much happier doing my own thing and pursuing my own interests. I only hope that the rest of the year can go so well!

I've found the bright spot in things for now. And for that, and that alone, I am totally happy.

We'll be back in two and two...

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled Poop House Chronicle reading for this commercial break.

Basically, I need a break from thinking about the poop house, and despite your dedicated and intense need to continue following, I think you all need a little break too.

Perhaps I should use this time wisely and at least mention a few things about the poop house posts. It won't get me away from thinking about the poop house, but there isn't any genuine way of escaping it for me anymore.

First off, let me state that the posts are composed very deliberately. I realize that I have been very detailed about my experiences without covering much time at all. In terms of actual time on my service, we've only covered a week, and the initial venture into the home while they were on Julie's service. I haven't even ventured back into the house yet since my training day experience. And yet, I've managed 4 LENGTHY posts on the topic.

I assure you that while I have laid an intensely detailed groundwork upon which we will continue to tread, not every venture into the house will be so heavily reported. I had the family on my service for over nine months, and while many of my daily or near daily visits were forever seared into my memory, many of the days ran together. Many of the days were very similar. The stand-out days are the ones which will be recounted for you. But when dealing with a place so foul, a stand-out day has to be something really genuinely remarkable, and never for a pleasant reason. I have composed the posts in the manner you find so riveting for a very specific reason. I feel it is important for me to hook you with these details now in order to keep you reading later. There are many genuinely unpleasant and vomit-inducing things ahead. If I captivate you now, it is intentional to ensure that you share in my horror later.

I assure you that while I bring you along to share in the experience, recounting it for you brings no relief or catharsis for me. As Traci so aptly stated in her recent comment, like anyone who has seen awful things, (soldiers, abuse victims, and other casualties of the more awful end of the spectrum of modern experiences,) these are things that stay with us and cause us to be damaged goods. We move on and live and work past these horrific experiences not only because we have to, but because if we didn't, the world would be that much worse that we suffered the experiences and did nothing with the knowledge gained. Furthermore, if we didn't press on, we would be equal victims of the tragic system and its antiquated standards which hurt almost as many as they heal. I refuse to be a victim of that system. And I refuse to believe that while I went into that house alone every day, that I should be the only one to know the fetid world which lay inside.

What is worse is that while this is supposed to be one of the worst cases on the books, the fact is that there are many more cases of similar nature which I have no doubt have gone unreported. There are cases in other communities. There are cases in other states. There are cases where people don't know how to fix anything, so they do nothing. There are cases where people go in and do the work but don't tell of the horrors they've seen. My fear is that these cases are more common than many of us would like to imagine. My story ensures that while I won't violate a client's confidentiality, I will not have experienced these things idly.

I hope you understand.

I also feel the need to point out that, yes, the child was living in the home the entire time I had the case. This alone should make your blood boil. If you are not already irate at the very idea of this, then details to come should send you over the edge. The fact that I reported every last detail of what I saw to a state case manager who was legally responsible for the welfare of the child, and the case worker did nothing should make you irate beyond words. Many of you might wonder why I didn't do anything myself to see that the child was removed. The fact is that every second of my work with that family was spent either working directly with them to improve conditions for the sake of the child, documenting the foulness of the home so that there was no way that the state case worker could say he didn't know, or directly stating to the case worker that there is no excuse for a child to still be living in that filth. And not for a lack of effort, nothing happened.

I'm not composing this series in order to garner sympathy from any of you, though I do appreciate that you sympathize. I appreciate that you come back and share in this with me. The fact is that I am writing these things because they are an ugly truth that I feel everyone should know about, and which I have finally processed enough on a personal level to share with whomsoever chooses to continue reading. If at any point you feel that you cannot deal with what you've read here, I understand, but I ask you to understand that I had to live it, forced to continue reliving it day after day, not fairly compensated for my efforts, and was made to feel guilty for being upset enough to seek outlets for my ire. What is almost worse than having the case itself, was the way that the company treated me and others in similar positions, even going so far as to deny us access to professional counseling outlets despite specializing is such services.

While I know that this is not really a break from the poop house chronicles, it at least informs you a little more in depth so that you know why I share these stories.

And now, here's a picture of a cute little bunny rabbit!




AWWWW! Look at that cute little guy!

The Poop House Chronicles (Part Four): Let's get to it.

So I've been unwillingly forced to take one of the worst cases ever. I was lied to, manipulated and then forced to keep the case against my will.

So the next day I did my normal case work. And knowing that I needed to make contact with the poop house family, I knew I would have to go there. I put it at the end of my day so that I could easily go home and sanitize myself after exposure to that environment. I went about my daily business with a sense of dread that grew by the minute. At the end of everything else, I girded myself for what was to come and drove to the poop house.

I sat out in my car and tried to determine the best course of action with regard for breathing for the length of time I would be there. Breathe through the mouth and not smell the place, but obviously have an open mouth in this place, or breathe through the nose and despite smelling the place and increasing the likelihood of my vomiting, have some kind of natural defense against the foulness, (nasal inhalation filtering things a bit).

I opted for the nose, despite the nasty repercussions, they were less nasty than the alternative. So I grabbed my binder and a pen and headed to the door. I knocked. And beyond a few moments of small dogs barking at me through the grungy door, there was no reply. I left them a note saying that I'd been there and requesting that they call me to set up an appointment.

I then went home, and despite not entering the house, I left my shoes outside my front door and showered.

The next day I operated on pretty much the same premise, putting the poop house at the end of my day, unless I got a call saying that they needed to meet with me another time. The call never came, so I went back, repeated the process of mental preparation, walking to the door, knocking, and leaving a note. I did this three more times during the rest of the week. I never received a call, and nobody ever answered the door.

I submitted my paperwork for the week noting my attempts to meet with them, and continued about my business.

The next week I had gone to the office for one reason or another and while I was there I ran into a senior member of the supervisory staff.

"Hey, Liz, can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Sure, what's up?"

"I noticed that you didn't have any face to face contact with these people last week."

"Yeah?"

"Well, that's a problem! These people are involved with us because they need our services and you're not meeting with them!"

"Listen, I TRIED to meet with them. I tried a total of five times. Nobody answered the door, and nobody called to set up an appointment time despite the notes I left. I can't help that."

"Well, that's not good enough."

"What do you mean that's not good enough? I went EVERY DAY last week and nobody answered the door, and nobody called to say that they had gotten the note and wanted to set up an appointment, or to even let me know when they would be home. I can't make them be at home when I show up. I can't make them answer the door if they are home."

"Well, you've only been going once a day!"

"Are you suggesting that I'm not doing my job?"

"Well, you should be going two and three times daily or sit outside and wait for them to come home."

"Brilliant! I can only bill for the few minutes it takes me to leave the note and you want me to wait outside for them to come home... And when would you suggest I see my other clients, because last I looked, they needed our services too?"

"Well, you still need to get to all your other clients, obviously. But you really need to get in there and make sure that this kid is ok."

"You've clearly never been to this house, because there is no way that anyone who lives in that dung heap is OK! And like I said before, if they are NOT at home, or they are at home and don't choose to answer the door, I can't make it happen."

"Well, you better make something happen."

"Make something happen... That's interesting. If I don't make something happen with these folks, are you going to take them off my service?"

"No. But if we find that you're not getting your job done we can withhold your paycheck."

"I've talked to the state case worker. I went every day last week, and left notes EVERY DAY. I'm doing my job, and I take issue with you implying that I'm not. We've had TONS of evasive clients on the books who outmaneuvered our people for longer periods than just a week. Are all the workers on those cases not doing their jobs either because they are not going undercover and hunting those clients down?"

"..."

"I didn't think so. But what I do think is that despite the fact that I am disgusted by the very idea of going to that house, I have been going and doing my job, and will continue to do so. I also think that I am accomplishing nothing by standing here defending my work, rather than being out there DOING IT. So, if we're through here, I'm going to go back out there and do my job so that no one else will accuse me of anything sordid which might cost me my paycheck."

"Well, I didn't mean to offend you, I was just saying that we need people in there."

"And I've told you that I've gone. And I'm not going to stand here talking in circles with you anymore."

(It was probably roughly the time that this conversation took place that I landed myself on that shit list belonging to the supervisors which made the higher-ups sigh heavily and roll their eyes when I spoke up in meetings until the day I left... It should be noted that only the best people make that list, and that it made me a favorite among my peers.)

I shrugged him off and left the office. I was beyond pissed off, because not only was I now assigned to the worst case on the books, I got it by means of intra-office deception, I was forced to keep it despite my protests, and now I was having my integrity called into question... Red flags are running up left and right. The argument turned out to be pointless because during my visit later in the day, the door was answered. And I was sorrowfully granted access to the earthly portal to hell.

I went, and once again tried my hand at mentally preparing for the scenario for which there is not any genuine way to mentally prepare. Physical preparations can be taken, although only in the form of a hazmat suit, but since I had no access to one, and the families we work with generally become offended when we show up wearing garments designed solely to protect ourselves from their homes, it wasn't really an option.

So I mentally cursed out in my car for a few minutes. I went up the broken sidewalk and up the crumbling concrete stairs. I knocked on the grungy beige door. I listened to the little dogs barking on the other side. And just as I prepared to write out my note, I heard the lock disengage. The door creaked open a few inches, and the barking got louder. I attempted to introduce myself, but was drowned out by the growling and barking. I told the guy at the door that I was Julie's replacement, yelling over the dogs. He opened the door wider and attempted to grant me access. The little dogs came pouring out onto the small area of front porch which was not heaped with festering garbage, they circled and tried to nip at my ankles through my pant legs. It was at this point I noticed that there were four small dogs. Two brown short-haired chihuahuas, one slightly larger tan chihuahua mutt, most likely mixed with a small terrier breed, and one small greyish black dog which was roughly the size of a chihuahua, but could not be readily identified as such due to a nasty case of mange and old age which had taken large chunks of the animal's fur. Even if the fur had been in place it would still have been one of the ugliest dogs in existence. I asked him if there was some way that the animals could be stored for the time that I was there. He merely scooted them back through the door, yelled at them to shut up, and came out onto the porch himself, shutting the door behind him. It was at this point that I mentally celebrated the slight stay of execution and got my first good look at this fellow.

Picture if you will a character we will call Mitch. Mitch isn't his real name of course, but I've only ever known one other Mitch, and I found him just as revolting, though in other ways. So, Mitch stood before me. A short, dirty, repulsive little troll of a man. He stood about 5' 2" a few inches shorter than myself. He stood barefoot on the disgusting porch, which was only bested in filth by the shit-stained carpet I knew existed on the other side of the door, which he'd also clearly been barefoot upon. He wore filthy bluejeans, which were not filthy in an "I'm grubby incidentally because I've been working on a roofing job today," kind of way, but more of a "I haven't bothered to peel these bad boys off in a couple of weeks long enough to shower, let alone wash them," kind of way. A dingy t-shirt with various food stains and other stains of unknown origin really paired well with the jeans to complete the ensemble. I noticed there were several holes in both garments implying that they were not only "well-worn" and past seeing better days, it was pretty clear based on the improper fit that they were most likely also second hand from a bargain bin at the thrift store or obtained at a church clothing drive. (*I would like to note at this time that I am not judging this man, nor anyone else in a similar position for wearing thrift store clothes, or obtaining anything through charitable means when it is warranted... I am merely describing the attire so that you get an accurate picture. If I'm judging anyone mentioned in these posts, it is not for their clothing, their income, or their social standing. I am judging them for living in filth, ruining the life of a child in the home, and continuing to feign ignorance when services and resources have been at their disposal for some time.) To look at the man's face, one observes a pale sallow complexion, thin patchy whisps of brownish hair, making it appear that he is either intentionally trying to grow a beard and having all the luck of a 13 year old boy who hasn't quite made it through enough of puberty to get real beardiness, or he has just inadvertently forgotten to shave for a week and these few scraggly patches were all his body could muster. He did have a small brown moustache, and coke-bottle bifocal glasses. But the two things which really made the most lasting impression were his curly brown mullet, which he wore with a straight face, and his mouth, which was little more than a pinkish graveyard where his teeth used to be, and which currently was populated with tiny, blackened, jagged nubs where most of his teeth had once resided. (As someone who takes pride in dental hygiene, I will not kid you when I say that it hurt me to look at them, and I'm almost positive that they had to hurt him.)

I reintroduced myself once the dogs calmed down some. I noted that I was Julie's replacement on their case. I asked him to sign a consent form and asked if his wife was home. He told me she wasn't, she had actually taken the little girl to go visit grandma. He informed me that she would return later and that the whole family would be home all day the next day. I shuddered at the thought of returning the following day, but even more so at the idea of going into the festering stink hole they called home today. I tried to weigh my options... I knew I had to go in and make sure that the kid wasn't living in ... well... worse conditions than what we already knew about.

I stood on the front porch and asked a few routine questions, and tried to figure out exactly how long I could be in that house without breathing before my brain would start to die from a lack of oxygen... I knew this was it. I was already there, and it was time to go back into the belly of the beast.

(To be continued...)

The Poop House Chronicles (Part Three): How fun for me!

When last we left off, the poop house ended up on my case sheet under false pretenses. I protested this. I was told to take it up with my supervisor. Luckily for me, I had come to the office to meet with my supervisor in the first place. So I met with my supervisor.

"So, how's your case load?"

"Shitty. Now literally."

"What do you mean?"

"I got conned into taking the poop house, and I don't want to set foot in there... Julie has had that case for two years. TWO YEARS! And JULIE can't get them to do anything, I haven't even been here six months, I sure as hell won't be able to get them to stop living in squalor and screwing up their kid's life if Julie can't get it done!"

"Well, I'm going to tell you to just tough it out for a little while. See what you can do with them. Just give it a shot. I know it's going to be unpleasant. But just tough it out for a little while and see how it goes."

"I don't think you understand just how bad I don't want to try on this case. I've had unpleasant cases all along, and I'm not trying to pretend that any of the cases that come in through those doors are by any means pleasant, but this is beyond me... And saddling me with this... This is just begging for trouble."

"Well, there aren't any trainees to give it to, although, I don't think a new hire should be doing this case..."

"I'm barely out of my 'probationary period,' I'm not that much better off! You're right! Give it to someone who has been here long enough to have health insurance, because they're going to need it!"

"You have health insurance. You can do this. Just try."

"BUT..."

"Try it. I bet you get further with them than you think!"

"'Try it,' you say that like a mom trying to get her kid to eat brussels sprouts for the tenth time, when the kid didn't like them the first nine times either. The only thing is that THIS ISN'T EVEN GOOD FOR ME, AND I CAN ALREADY TELL YOU THAT I DON'T LIKE IT."

"If you don't see any results, we'll transfer it in a month."

"A MONTH? That's so cruel!"

"Take it or leave it, that's the offer. It's staying on your sheet, and if you want to keep working here, you'll do the job."

"I hope you don't think I'm going to walk around pretending like I'm ok with this."

"Nope. Do what you have to. Just do the job."

Just do the job they told me. Only a month they told me. I would later find out I'd been lied to again... But that's a month later in the story.

In the meantime I admittedly sulked for a little while, and then I called their state case manager. As it turned out, it was someone who had gone to high school with me. To protect the names of the innocent, we'll continue referring to the case as the poop house, rather than by the family name, and we'll call the state case worker Dave.

"Dave! What's happening?"

"Liz! What can I do for you?"

"Well, I've got a case with you... The poop house."

"OH. I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as I am."

"Yeah, you will have to be there a hell of a lot more than I will... That'll suck."

"Thanks so much. ...So what do you want me to do here that Julie wasn't able to accomplish in her TWO YEARS on this case?"

"Well, to be honest with you, I don't know... I mean Julie had a chore list for them, and so I guess just make sure they are keeping up with that... Maybe introduce some hygiene into the routine. I don't know, just make sure the kid is alive and fed and do what you can."

"You do know the state of the house don't you? There's no way that that house is an acceptable environment!"

"Yeah, I've seen it. I've smelled it. I've done whatever I can to change things for them... And I know it's awful, but technically speaking it meets minimum standards, so it is what it is... Ideally I'd like to get out of there in a couple of months, provided that nothing major happens between now and then."

(That last little caveat in the speech sealed my fate.)

I hung up with Dave, and went to talk to Julie.

"Julie! Why did you dump the poop house onto my case load?"

"Lizzle, they gave that to you? OH I AM SO SORRY!"

"Well, tell me what I need to do to get anything out of them... I am not thinking anything is going to change, but give me your sage advice here."

"Well, stay on top of their chore list. I had them tape it to a cabinet so they'd see it every day, that never did any good, so basically you have to go in at random times and unfortunately you've got to stand there and go through all the chores listed one by one and make sure that they get done so that you can document that they did them."

"GROSS."

"Gross doesn't begin to cover that place!"

"I know, but I lack the vocabulary to really say anything about what it really is."

"Nobody has that vocabulary."

"Thanks for the help... And I hate you for dumping this on me!"

"You're welcome!"

And with that, I went home to do a little more sulking. I sulked for about an hour, finished out my standard work day, and went back home to sulk some more... Little did I know that this would be my last standard work day for quite some time.

The Poop House Chronicles (Part Two): SURPRISE!!!

After reading the Poop House Chronicles (Part One) you have the lay of the land. You now have at least a mild mental picture of the squalor with which we are dealing. I assure you that the descriptions contained in the last post were completely 100% tame (this post too, is tame, even tamer than the last post.) When compared with what lies ahead... In terms of nerdy references,** the hobbits haven't even gotten out of the Shire yet. They might have encountered a little bit of poop fertilizing a crop or something, but they have encountered nothing even resembling mortal danger just yet.

** Side note: Don't act like you didn't see that movie. I know you better than that. You might not have gone to the theater on opening weekend, or at all, but it found it's way into your netflix queue, or into your stack at blockbuster at some point. I don't care if you have to rationalize it in the "epic scope movie" way, or in the "impressive digital effects" way, or even the "well, it won all those awards, so I figured what the hell" way... The fact is that you saw it, JUST LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE. As a result of seeing that movie, you understand that things only get uglier and uglier and more complicated up until the VERY END. You are only a nerd if, (like me,) you also read the book... possibly more than once. **

It gets FAR WORSE from there, so if that description bothered you, I encourage you to skip all of the Poop House Chronicles posts to come. I will not be held financially or otherwise responsible or in any way liable for any damage to your person, or possessions, (including, but not limited to, vomit on your keyboard, mental anguish, emotional distress, birth defects, heart palpitations, stroke, nausea, anal leakage, suicidal thoughts, self-inflicted wounds resulting from attempting to cleanse yourself by drinking bleach, or by gouging out your eyes with a pen, etc.)

So when we left off, Julie and I were in her car. I was contemplating the serious questions regarding what I was willing to put myself through in order to earn a paycheck and remain on the right side of the law. These were big questions to be sure.

Through the remainder of my training I encountered nothing worse than one house which was mildly cluttered and smelled like locker full of dirty gym socks. Julie again assured me that there was virtually no chance that I would end up with a case that bad, as that was the worst of the worst, and she was already on it, and she's been doing this job for years, so she isn't going anywhere.

I figured that my financial woes were bad enough that I needed to go ahead and see what I was going to get saddled with when I was handed my own case load and go from there. This, my first red flag, would pass by acknowledged but unheeded. I know that they say that hindsight is 20/20, but if I knew then what I know now, there is no way in hell that I'd have stayed on. Not even if they had offered to triple my salary. In retrospect, it really is amazing how long I stayed once the red flags went back up and I got so used to encountering them on a daily basis that I began to suspect I was part of some secret government relocation plan which landed me in China, Albania, the USSR, or some other unpleasant country with a predominantly red national flag.

So my training wore on, and I did so well with everything that I was actually handed cases after only eight days of training rather than the standard ten. While I was ahead of the game, I was behind the proverbial eight ball. Things only went downhill from here.

In the interest of full disclosure, the standard case load for a person in my position is usually something on the order of five to ten cases. Some case workers have as many as eighteen to twenty-five, but that includes cases which are "on hold," which as you may have guessed, means that nobody is doing anything on them, but you're still assigned the case if it should suddenly become active again. The goal of the person in my position is to bill 30 or more hours per week. (Keep in mind that this is BILLABLE time, not necessarily the actual time you will spend dealing with your ne'er do well clients.) In the simplest terms, when you have 10 cases, you obviously spend an average of 3 hours per week on any given case. When you have five cases you average 6 hours per case. Trust me when I tell you that when dealing with any of these clients, spending 6 hours with them becomes QUITE the chore.

My initial case load was most likely designed as a "trial by fire" because my superiors decided that my case load would consist of TWO, count them, TWO cases. This means that if I was merely working the absolute minimum, I would average FIFTEEN hours a week working with each of the TWO families. And the requests of the state case managers had me working closer to 45 billable hours per week to meet all the standards, (working closer to 60 hours weekly when all was said and done). That is ENTIRELY TOO MUCH time for me to be spending with anyone who I don't like, and with whom I wouldn't hang out with at the bar. I was in hell almost instantly.

So I worked my two cases and carried on about my business, trying my best to tough it out until something changed. Mind you, within a month of my first day of training I got called to court to testify against the mother on one of my cases, and I was expected to continue working with her after that testimony shot all kinds of holes in what little rapport I'd established with her. So I did my time, like a good little prisoner, and was constantly cursed at, berated, and belittled for merely doing my job, and six months later she got her children back and I was rid of her... Of course when you're working so heavily on TWO cases, when one closes, you've got to pick up new cases to make up for those lost hours.

I picked up a couple of relatively easy cases, especially when compared to the mega-bitch with whom I'd just finished. I'd still managed to make my hourly quota by dealing with suicide threats and being constantly on call for a woman who seemed to think that just because she had my direct line (which we are unfortunately required to give them) that she was to use it at all hours to let me know at three AM that she'd gotten new shoes, or that she was feeling hopeless and wanted to start self-mutilating again. So at three in the morning I would either have to explain that new shoe news could wait until our appointment the next day at the more civilized hour of nine AM, or haul my ass out of bed, go downtown, and talk her out of filleting her arm. She always refused to go get a mental health evaluation at a hospital, so it was always on me to take care of this mess. Eventually this nut job calmed the fuck down, and my hours began to stabilize at a reasonable level.

For whatever reason, right about this same time, hiring had slowed to a crawl. (This is highly uncommon, as you might have guessed with a job like this, turnover is ridiculous, and with this firm it was PARTICULARLY obscene.) But there was nobody to take on new cases. And in case you didn't already know, people don't stop abusing their kids just because hiring is down. So it wasn't uncommon to get phone calls from the office staff requesting that people with already-full schedules start taking on additional cases. Julie the magnanimous, often gets these calls before anyone else because she loves what she does and doesn't mind working a 60 hour week. Julie got a phone call begging her to take a case which would significantly add to her already over-full schedule. Julie took it. Julie then called the office a few days later stating that she would keep her new case, but that she would need to dump a few of her other, slightly less time-consuming cases in order to fulfill the requests of the state case worker on her new case.

(Most of you see where this is going.)

Not wanting to upset Julie, a highly valued and diligent worker, her wish was granted, and some of her smaller cases were taken off of her service. Of course, this all happened in a back door, cloak and dagger transaction, and one of the cases she dumped (pun only slightly intended) was THE POOP HOUSE.

A short while later, my phone rings. It's the office.

"Hello?"

"LIIIIIIIIIZ! How nice to talk to you!"

"What do you want from me?"

"Well, we see that your hours have dropped off from 45 to around 35, and if you want the extra money, we've got some easy cases!"

"You're selling this a little too much, what's on the table?"

"Oh, nothing too terrible! Just a parent aide which shouldn't take more than a couple hours a week, really easy, in and out really!"

"Is it a new case?"

"No, it's a transfer case, so people have already laid the ground work for you!"

"What's going on with them?"

"Well, let's see... There's a little girl. She's five. She was taken out of the home because her dad molested her from the time she was three, she's been in foster care, and now they have put her back in the home with her mom and step-dad and they just want someone to go in and make sure that things are going ok... You might have to help them with finding some resources like food on occasion, but mom has a job, so nothing too terribly involved."

"Let me think about it and get back to you."

"PLEASE take it! I don't have any trainees to give it to, and everyone else is full at this point!"

"Well if you look at my hours, I'm full too!"

"Yeah, but you're not as full as you were! And this is just extra money in the bank!"

"I'll think about it."

"PLEEEEEEEEEASE?"

"We'll talk about it when I get to the office."

A short while later I got to the office. Again I got pathetic pleading. And I got the repeat of the "easy case, easy money" line. Under false pretenses, I was suckered into taking the case. At this point I am figuring that it can't be that bad. And then I am handed the case information sheet. I see the address. It looks familiar, but I can't quite place it. I look up the address on mapquest and as my jaw hits the desk I develop a stutter. I know this neighborhood. I KNOW THIS HOUSE!

IT'S THE POOP HOUSE!

"You lied to me! You told me this was an EASY case that was not heavily involved at all! It might not be heavily involved if I had a hazmat suit, a gas mask, and a bulldozer! I'm NOT taking this case!"

"It's already on your sheet! Take it up with your supervisor!"

RED FLAG!! I was lied to, and conned into taking THE POOP HOUSE! And THE POOP HOUSE itself raised about 9.3 MILLION RED FLAGS!

I should have quit on the spot.

I still needed the paycheck too desperately.

I didn't quit.

I knew what was out there... I just didn't know how bad it was all about to get.

Is there a problem?

I've checked the stats, there are people still reading this stuff. So my question is this; is it actually possible that you have nothing to say about the description of the poop house?

If that's the case, I am amazed. Because the fact is that I have PLENTY of comments about the poop house, even at this early stage in the story.

Is it too long? Is it too much? Are you all deliberately silent for other reasons? I need some kind of response to figure out how to go about telling the story from here on out! If I need to shorten the posts, fine! TELL ME! If I need to be more graphic, just hold on, it'll get there. If I need to be less graphic to get any kind of response, I will likely have to abandon this line of story telling altogether, but I need to know whether or not you all are willing to read this stuff.

Let a ho know!

Poop House Chronicles (Part One) ...Brace Yourself

Imagine if you will, that you left your hometown to attend college in a major city. Over the course of the next several years you find that you are in love with the city, it's charms, and all it has to offer. Suddenly, 6 years later the city you've come to love beyond reason turns its back on you, and you are forced to return to your hometown.

This alone would be more than enough culture shock for most people. I assure you that despite the tears over the financially forced move, this is merely the tip of the iceberg.

I returned to the hometown and performed a pretty standard job search, not setting expectations too high, knowing that the hometown has limited offerings, being the festering cesspool of mediocrity that it is. I was taken on by a social work firm which you all have heard about before, but just so you understand fully, the concept of the job was to work with families who, for a myriad of reasons, were singled out by the department of child and family services. Our role was essentially to do the leg work and heavy lifting for that agency in order to assist the families with achieving goals set by the state case managers to get the children back into a more stabilized home environment, preferably with their natural parents.

I had done a ride along with a long-term staff member during my initial interviewing period. Based on what I'd seen I wasn't overly enthralled with the job, but I understood the concept was to get involved in a "down in the trenches" kind of way in order to improve the lives of the children involved. It appealed to me on the level that I would be using my degree, and on the level that I really desperately needed to start earning a paycheck. So when they called to say, "Your training begins on Tuesday." I went for it.

I went in on Tuesday, got my handbook, filled out standard paperwork, went to take the standard company drug test, and get fingerprinted by the state so that they could check me out and make sure I wasn't a homicidal, child molesting crack fiend or anything like that. They then sent us home to return on Wednesday to watch parenting videos, talk to a lady about Aflac coverage, and do other in-office training. Thursday rolled around, and it was time to venture out into the field as a trainee. The first couple of days of field training were pretty uneventful, and based on the work I'd seen with my new coworkers, I was starting to think that this wasn't going to be such a bad way to earn a living. Little did I know, the other shoe was about to drop.

A few days into my field training, I went out with Julie. Julie is a wonder woman who does incredible things for her clients every day. She works miracles with clients who can't seem to produce results with anyone else, and she does what she does out of deep love and human compassion. My first day with Julie wasn't at all bad. We did a couple of supervised visits, and pretty basic parent aide cases. The next day was a different story. It started out with a basic supervised visit... After about three hours of work, we got into Julie's car, and she got serious.

"Lizzle, I need to warn you about this next case."

"Uh-oh, that statement and that face are already starting to scare me."

"They should. You've been great so far, but this next case is BAD. In fact, it's probably worse than anything you've ever seen in your entire life, and this is by far one of the worst cases we have on the books. The fact is that you will most likely never have a case this bad in the entire time that you work here."

"Oh, Jesus, what the hell is going on?"

"Well, this is a dirty house... But not just any dirty house... More like THE dirty house."

"Uhh..."

"Ok, so here's the thing. These folks have a lot of animals. And they aren't really good about keeping up with them. And they have a lot of clutter and garbage in and around the house. And they have a pretty nasty bug problem... But the first thing you're going to notice is the odor."

"Odor? ...Odor first?"

"Yeah... It might be the dead of winter, but you'll smell this place the second you open the car door."

"Ooooooh."

"I'll try to keep this appointment as brief as possible, so hopefully we'll only be in there for a few minutes, but these warnings are to prepare you so that you're not going in expecting anything else... The only other warning is that since this house is as dirty as it is, I'm just going to tell you not to touch anything that you don't absolutely have to touch... Which basically means don't touch anything. You won't be tempted to, but don't sit down, and just try to suppress the natural horrified reaction, and keep a poker face like you've seen this a million times."

We drove to a rundown neighborhood in that area of town on the wrong side of the proverbial tracks, and parked in front of THE POOP HOUSE.

Julie was wrong. Upon pulling up to the curb, looking at the house I saw the mess first. The house itself was decrepit. Putting it simply, the house itself looked as if it was defeated, sagging on it's foundation, long past appearances of being condemned and currently looking as if it was minutes away from being slated for demolition. The trash on the lawn, a "lawn" which was dead not only because it was winter, but (if my suspicions were right) was always dead because of the toxicity of the structure on the property, and the liberal coating of assorted garbage which remained plastered firmly on the ground despite harsh winter winds. I then opened the car door, and knew what Julie had said wasn't nearly enough preparation for what was to come, because despite the warnings about the odor, standing out on the curb, across the expanse of the litter-strewn front lawn, the smell nearly knocked me over. My initial thought was to say something to Julie, but knowing that we were outside the safe bubble of the car, I would do better to hold my tongue, (and my breath,) for the time being. I wanted to tell her that any time I'd been in a neighborhood like this, and smelled a smell like this, I had just always assumed that there was something wrong with the flow in the sewer line. I didn't say a word.

We walked up the front walk, and ascended the broken concrete steps to a front porch which was crammed with garbage piled waist-high, broken and dismantled bicycles, broken toys, a folded up wheelchair, a dirty child's plastic play vanity with few, if any, pieces intact, and the ever-present and intensifying putrifying odor of sewer, rot, and vomit inducing foulness. Behind a beige door which I suspected had at some point been white, I heard the sounds of several small dogs barking. Julie knocked, and the door creaked open a few inches. The resident male (I'm reticent to call him a father by any stretch of the imagination, because any real father would not allow a child to exist in this squalor, and we're not even in the front door,) saw that it was Julie, and let us in. As he opened the door, several small dogs came pouring out barking and growling at us and at each other.

We passed through the front door, into a cramped- bordering- on- claustrophobic, dimly-lit space, where the air was slightly warmer, completely stagnant, and to use the mildest term, instantly nauseating. This space, in an ordinary home would be a front room, or living room area. Instead, to the immediate left was a makeshift bedroom setup. There was a bare, dirty, dumpster-ready full or queen-sized mattress on a box spring and frame (I'm basing the assumption that there was a box spring and frame present solely on the height of the structure, not because I could actually see a box spring or frame, because there were heaps of stained, soiled clothing and garbage piled almost level with the top of the mattress.) There was a closet on the far wall, but it was readily apparent that it had not been opened in years, due to the volume of assorted items piled between the closet doors and the bedside. There was one window which was clearly nailed shut, a desk littered with papers, garbage, empty food containers, and cheap trinkets and keepsakes. On one shelf of the desk, among the papers and other clutter was a pile of animal feces which appeared to have been there for some time. Much of this space was obscured by a makeshift room divider, which consisted of a mismatched pair of sheets hanging on a rope strung from the front door frame to the frame of another door leading into the next room. To the right, there were rusted steel shelves, again littered with papers and cheap trinket items. Around the base of the shelves was a collection of several broken, dismantled, outdated computer towers, monitors, and other non-functional electronic items, as well as trash bags filled with god only knows what, papers, boxes of clothing, and other indistinguishable bric-a-brac. Among the bags and boxes was another pile of animal poo, this one significantly fresher than the last, and perched on one of the rusted out shelves was a large, mean looking tan and white cat, which I suspected was the culprit, and which hissed at us as we passed.

Under foot was old, thin, industrial carpet which was really just a collection of medium sized remnants pieced together, and which showed every indication of being caked, smeared, and stained with animal dung very extensively for quite some time.

We proceeded forward into a narrow room which could, in theory, be described as a den or TV room. To the left was a pieced-together old computer, a particle board entertainment center housing a television, gaudy knicknacks, and enough garbage and papers to fill several 30 gallon trash cans to the brim. The garbage was not only on the shelves, but impacted and heaped around and behind the shelving unit. There was a small kitchen table pushed directly against the entertainment center, making it readily apparent that this was where the family ate meals while watching television. And to the back of the room there was a door to the child's bedroom which remained closed. To the right was a ratty, heavily-soiled lazy boy recliner, a low couch which belonged in a landfill, which sat under another window which showed obvious signs of rot and structural damage, which was also nailed shut. To the rear on the right there was another recliner, this one in even worse shape than the first, and upon which there was another fresh pile of dung on one arm rest, another cat perched on the top of the back cushion, and two of the small dogs which barked furiously as we continued to walk past into the kitchen.

Immediately upon entering the kitchen on the left was a rusted metal rack loaded up with bags of rotted food. A transparent bag of what appeared to be some kind of cereal or possibly kibble which was degraded beyond recognition, and moving, as it became apparent that there were cockroaches milling around, eating and doing what cockroaches do. Further to the left was a pantry door, partially open where it appeared several colonies of cockroaches had taken up residence. This was evidenced by... Well, the moving brown and black mass which covered the interior walls and shelves of the pantry. Another shelf of tacky knicknacks, garbage, and animal waste sat in the corner to the left. There was a door to a small bathroom which remained shut, peeling, dirty wall paper, exposing crumbling plaster, and another small kitchen table which was piled to chest level with soiled laundry, upon which there was another pair of cats and more piles of dung which appeared to have been there for varying amounts of time. Beyond the table was a washer and dryer where more cats congregated. To the right of those was a heap of soiled clothing stacked from the floor to nearly eye level in the far corner. Along the right wall was a refrigerator with nothing on it but dirt and rust stains. I didn't even want to know what was in it when the outside looked so foul. Nearer on the right was a double basin sink full above the brim with dirty dishes, pots and pans. A window over the sink was covered in plastic on the outside, and the inside was open a crack. On the window sill was a child's toothbrush and a putrified tube of toothpaste which looked like it hadn't been used in quite some time. More roaches skittered about among the dishes in the sink and up on the windowsill where the toothbrush lay. To the right of the sink was a stove under a row of ceiling mounted cabinets. The cabinet doors were closed, but it was still readily apparent that the roaches lived in there too, because they crawled in and out through the cracks. Looking down at the stovetop, I noticed that there were more dirty pots and dishes, but nestled among them was another cat.

Nearest to us on the right was a waist-high counter stacked with empty bags which once contained food, non-functional kitchen appliances, roaches both alive and dead, and of course, another cat.

On the floor of the kitchen area were at least four piles of animal crap which had clearly been there for anywhere between a few days and a few minutes.

And there I stood, completely horrified... Horrified and trying to concentrate very hard to control my gag reflex in as low-key a manner as possible.

I don't recall what all was said during the few minutes we were in the house, other than Julie stating that the family needed to do the dishes, and pick up the poop.

After making our way back out the front door, and getting into Julie's car, she soaked both my hands and hers with hand sanitizer. We then both used anti-bacterial baby wipes to make sure we covered and killed everything possible. As she turned the car on, and began to drive away, she looked over at me. I can't even imagine the look on my face. I sat there, trying to figure out what I was going to do from here. Trying to figure out how the hell I was going to tell my mom that I'd quit the job I'd gotten only days earlier. Trying to figure out how I was going to get this smell off of me and out of my nose. Trying to figure out how I was going to be able to work the rest of the day knowing that I was contaminated from having just been in that environment.

It was Julie's case, and Julie is known for working miracles with people... There are no miracles at the earthly doorway to hell.

This is only the beginning of your epic journey into the hell I dealt with...

I can't think of a real title, so I'll just tell you, my toes are cold!

Yeah, welcome back, I've been milling around, applying for jobs, reading books, baking cookies, and waiting for my prodigal roommate who seldom ventures home.

Basically, I try to find any form of cheap or free amusements to occupy my time and usually that consists of reading my collection of books, (that way when I start getting paychecks I have excuses to buy new ones!) and playing word twist on facebook. It's really exciting stuff, I know!

But seeing as I spend all that time on facebook playing word twist, I click over to the (now entirely too cluttered and contrived) home page and get updates on my friends. I get a lot of the run of the mill updates, seeing people's wedding photos, status updates mentioning vacations, and things like that, but what amuses me the most are the updates and wall posts of my former co-workers. (GOD, I LOVE THOSE UPDATES!) So often the fine folks still sweating it out at my old job just write updates about how they are looking forward to the weekend, or dreading the coming week. I remember those feelings very well, though not very fondly!

The field workers mention how they have been subpoenaed to go to court and testify against a client, dreading meeting with infamously bad clients, (infamously bad clients who other people had to take on once I left, because I was notoriously saddled with the worst of the worst for much of the time I was there) and dreading case conferences and "family team meetings." Meanwhile the office staff airs their gripes about scheduling problems, training new people, dealing with the boss' wife, and other general complaints about their place in the company. And I would feel sorry for them, but the fact is that if they keep in touch with any of us who got the hell out of there, (and many of them do,) they'd know that the unbelievable feeling of liberation is not only incredible, but incredibly long-lasting! It's well worth any risk or trepidation they might encounter with regards to making a swift exit!

With all this in mind, I'm going to refer you back to a post from a couple of months ago... I just re-read it, and it's just as vivid, horrific, and accurate as it was the day I composed it. I'm not referring you back there to garner additional sympathy, because as far as that job goes, I'm out like a trout, but because it mentions something I think I'm ready to talk about. Namely, the "poop house."

I won't get into it in this post, but I told you that if you stuck it out with me, that you'd get to hear the worst of the worst as far as my work related horror stories go. This post is merely to remind, and more likely warn, of what's to come. Like characters in all those adventure stories and movies you've grown to love, you must steel yourself for what lies ahead!

Bring your A-game in the days to come, and if you've got a weak gag reflex, you might want to stay away for a bit. Call this fair warning. You now know what's coming... You just have NO IDEA how ugly it will be!

A few more hours...

In case you cared (and you're here, so why wouldn't you care!) and don't already know, on Sunday a ridiculous windstorm plowed through the state of Ohio... It plowed through other states too, but we're talking about me here, so FOCUS!

OHIO!

WINDSTORM!

ME!

There you are! So anyway, this huge windstorm blew in, and not a drop of rain fell. The same cannot be said for trees, branches, power lines, roof shingles, and morale. Mostly power lines and morale. Fairly early on, the electricity blinked and then went off altogether. The wind kept howling, and there wasn't a drop of rain, or any thunder or lightning, and so while it might have been stupid of us, but we ventured outside largely because we had no electricity so boredom and curiosity quickly took hold. We don't have any big trees in our yard, and all the power lines are out back, so we scurried out front just to see what this storm was doing. After being slapped in the face with some errant, fast-moving loose leaves, we surveyed the scene

Well, the neighbors across the street were all standing out in front of their home too, their curiosity probably stemmed from the fact that a very large pine tree which once stood in front of their house was now laying across the lawn and the street. Since the wind was still gusting away, we marveled at the uprooted conifer for a few minutes, but went back inside. After about a half an hour the winds continued to blow, and we continued to be curious... Especially when we began to hear a chainsaw. (Keep in mind, we are still MID-WINDSTORM.) The neighbors were cutting on their fallen tree. Because really, what moves better in hurricane force winds? A whole tree, or smaller lighter parts of a tree? If you answered the smaller lighter parts of the tree, congratulations, you also have the intelligence that the neighbors lack.

Several hours later, the winds died down.

While the outdoor furniture had been overturned, and there were a few sticks in the yard, our house was unscathed... But we had no power.

We had no power, and we were starting to get hungry. We didn't have any problems with thirst on the other hand, because we'd had a couple bottles of vodka in the freezer and plenty of mix-ins in my liquor box (formerly a liquor cabinet, but here they are relegated to a box.) Since there was no power running to the fridge and the freezer, we figured that we might as well cook up some wings that we'd frozen about a week ago. We defrosted them and fired up the grill. We cooked them as best we could. We used the open bottle of sauce from the fridge, figuring that it would go bad too if it wasn't used almost immediately. But since there was no electricity, there were no lights, and thus no way to tell if the chicken was done. Well some wings were done, and some weren't. We didn't figure this out until biting into them, but we figured it out just in time to save ourselves from a really long ugly night of alternating turns in the bathroom in the dark.

Monday morning we woke up and the electricity was still off. The Admiral made some calls and found out that the electricity was out at her office too, and when you've got electronic door locks and lots of computers, electricity is kind of something that's needed. So she didn't have to go in. So we sat listening to a battery powered radio for a while surveying the damage. Basically, the gist that we were getting between phone calls and radio information was that pretty much the whole damn state was blacked out, and not just our state, but neighboring states as well. GREAT. And of course, since this windstorm was an inland, midwestern result of Hurricane Ike, we knew about the storm, and so did the power companies, but trying to be helpful to the rest of the country, we'd sent most of our utility crews and equipment to other regions to help them out, figuing they'd be hit harder than we would... Oh, little did we know. SPECTACULAR. We called the automated information center at the power company to try to determine how long our area could anticipate being blacked out. The estimate we got was not at all comforting. SEVEN TO TEN DAYS!

Shortly thereafter, the Admiral's boyfriend called. His car charger for his phone was in her car. So the Admiral prepared to take it over to him. As she left, I reminded her, "Ok, now when you're over there, hanging out with your boyfriend, and his brother, and whomever else comes along, and you might have the possible use of a generator, remember that I'm here alone with the cat... And no power." She laughed and said she'd remember and went on her merry way.

And I didn't see her for the rest of the day. I read a book, played scrabble against myself, cleaned up the back yard, you know, the things you do when you don't have access to electricity, internet, and the like.

So she spent the night over there, and I spent the night reading a book by candle light with the cat. Not too bad. A little lonely, but not too bad. The next day rolls around and I busy myself with cleaning the bathroom, sweeping and mopping the floors, and other menial tasks which occupied the hours. And as the evening wears on, it became clear that she was not coming home tonight either. So, like a caveman, I cooked my dinner over a fire in the back yard, and once again I read a book by candle light with the cat. (Dinner was spectacular by the way, and it was a shame that I was the only one there to appreciate it!) Morning comes and since things are clean already, I read for a little while, I played scrabble against myself again, tried to figure out what I was going to eat now that all the perishables were rotten or questionable at best, and the non-perishables were running dangerously low, I played with the cat, I read some more, and finally got so stir crazy out of a need for human contact and external noises of any sort, that I went to shopping centers which appeared to have power and made ordinary purchases like shampoo, conditioner, and non-perishable food items.

I get a phone call from the Admiral.

"We got power there?"

"Nope. Are you coming home ever? Scrabble solitare sucks... But between that and the newfound time to read, I'm improving my vocabulary, and feeling smarter, which is a nice change... I'm also feeling rather Amish, which I'm not such a fan of since I have no barns to build or cows to milk."

"Yeah, I'll probably be around tonight, but I have to do laundry, and since there's no power, I can't do it there, so who knows."

Obviously, I know she wants to spend time with her boyfriend. I understand and respect that... But I was admittedly a little perturbed at the idea of spending another night and day alone in the dark... I hadn't done anything to deserve being sent to prison, let alone solitary confinement.

(I realize that I just compared my life to prison, which even I see as a gross overstatement of things, but when you've been totally alone for three days with no one but the cat to talk to and you can't so much as cook a meal in a kitchen, watch a movie, get online and read the gossip columns, or turn the lights on while showering, you tend to lose your grip on rationality.)

At 5:30 PM the power came back on. Significantly ahead of the 7-10 day outage anticipated. And I immediately scared the cat by loudly lauding the praises of utility crews in impromptu off-key song. I called the Admiral, getting her voicemail, and let her know that she could do laundry here because we had power... And just in time, because if I didn't see a familiar face soon and have someone who was able to talk back to me when spoken to, I was just a few more hours from going totally feral... You know, like those children raised by wolves in under-developed countries! BAD SCENE!

The Admiral came home, did laundry, ate dinner, and left me for the boyfriend's house, again. I'm not going to complain, I'll take the few hours of human contact and functioning electricity where I can get it!

But in case you were wondering where I'd been, there's your answer.

With that said, it's good to be back!

Fueling the fire...

I've been doing whatever I can to get my name where it needs to be in order to obtain work.

I'm not being so obnoxious as to purchase space on a billboard, largely because I can't afford it, but still. I'm trying.

And while I've submitted a ridiculous number of resumes in relation to the number of interviews I've gotten, I think my persistence has bitten me in the ass.

While attempting to contact people who I know, and people who I know by proxy, I think that I've managed to get myself blacklisted at one of my biggest possibilities at employment.

To tell you all the story, I emailed someone who I knew by proxy, (not in a presumptuous way, but merely to put my name into contention,) and that person received my email and noted that he would forward my resume on to someone he knew. Well, the person he sent my resume to sent me an email essentially lecturing me on trying to circumvent standard procedures and the problems of attempting to obtain employment by cronyism. TOTALLY NOT WHAT I WAS SHOOTING FOR!

My problem is that I have no idea how to even respond to this type of reception... I mean of course, I will make every effort to smooth any ruffled feathers by issuing a relatively standard mea culpa, even though I don't think that I am at fault for how things were mistakenly construed. I mean really, how do normal people respond in this situation? Or am I just so awkward that normal people don't get into this kind of mess? HELP!

I mean if we're getting into the real nuts and bolts of impulsive reaction to things, I'm not going to lie, my (less than diplomatic) response to things would have been to basically say "Eff you! DICK!" because his response to me was significantly more asshole-ish than was necessary... But no, I am trying to be nice, so I have to be all ,"Oh, no! I didn't mean to try to get work by any means of cronyism, I am the ass here!" Even though that's totally not the case... I'm sure it doesn't help that I've been drinking profusely. That rarely assists rational thought... (Note I sad RARELY and not NEVER, because there are plenty of examples where drunken ideas have turned out to be totally ingenious. But those times are not relevant in this particular case!

Jesus! I have to wrap this up before I start sounding like a total crazy person... That is, if I haven't crossed that boundary already, which is entirely likely.

Responding largely to Brenda...

To any of you fine folks out there who think I'm totally likable, the fact is that you are somewhat mistaken.

The fact is that I am only really likable about 85% of the time.

I'm not saying that I go out of my way to be mean. In point of fact, I often go out of my way to do what I can to be accommodating. This is especially true when I'm just getting to know people. And while the Admiral's sisters have known me, or at least known of me for roughly 6 years, they are still unfamiliar with the ins and outs of knowing me well. And the same is true for me knowing them well, aside from what I get secondhand via the admiral. However, unlike them, I am not socially retarded, so I know that I need to take careful steps in initiating interaction, and avoid offense whenever possible. Though from what you might have gathered, I am highly disinclined to continue being cordial for the sake of getting to know them before deciding to dislike them, largely because they don't seem to give a damn about offending me.

It's becoming much more of a chore than I am inclined to deal with, even for the sake of overall peace and harmony... In fact, while I'm sure that things will eventually blow over between the Admiral and her sisters, I rather enjoy getting to spend the extra time hanging out with her while they refuse to talk to each other, and well, I hardly see how reunifying them benefits any of us, when all they do is degrade her and make her feel bad about the choices that make her happy, and I operate under the premise that ever person has their own vices and virtues, and to each their own as far as things that make them happy... Of course, the social retardation of the sisters makes this mindset really unfeasible for them, and they continue being hostile... So that's not really an issue.

But what do I know? I'm only genuinely likable 85% of the time.