It might bore you to tears, but I'm going for it...

So I only composed my most recent entry last night, and it was a brief synopsis of how I am boring, and how I seem to be getting more boring by the day, but in the spirit of rekindling some kind of creativity and positive energy, and in that whole "get back up on the horse" spirit of things, I've decided that I'm going to go ahead and post more crap just so that I can get back into the rhythm of being awesome for you. (I do it all for you guys, really!)

Here goes. (This will almost certainly read in the stream-of-consciousness spectrum of writings, but just roll with me.)

Today I went and officially got my Ohio driver's license. Not really all that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things until you consider one important fact. For the first time EVER, I am genuinely happy with my driver's license picture! The thing is, if any of you as ever seen a current Ohio driver's license or state ID, you've probably noticed that the picture is kind of blurry. On every driver's license I've seen since coming here, that's the case, so it's not like they just blurred things out for me because I was busted or something... I'm not of the low self esteem mindset to call myself busted (I'm kind of reasonably cute, though grossly out of shape) but anyway, everyone is blurry, not just me. But I'm not happy with the picture just because I'm a little blurry, I'm happy because even in the normal resolution photo they showed me before they slapped it on a legal form of identification, it was a really respectable ID photo. I think this might also have something to do with the fact that for the first time in entirely too long, I'm pretty genuinely happy with most of my life... I mean, yes, I'd be happier if I had a job and normal human interaction every day, and an income to boot, but I'm not working a job that makes me miserable. I'm reasonably healthy, (despite the aforementioned and acknowledged need to get to the gym solely for the sake of personal pride and enjoyment of physical activity... Gym memberships, too, cost money, and therefore come with a job that delivers not a pittance but a real paycheck not earned by dealing with threats of bodily harm, lice, scabies, or poop, so that too will be solved with the new job whenever that comes along.) I get to hang out with my best friend at least a couple of nights a week. I still get to talk to my mom on a daily basis. I don't live in the festering cesspool of mediocrity known as my hometown anymore, and ... Well, if that can't make a person happy, then you're beyond help.

I have the added bonus of getting to see one of those family members who ensures a quality outing and lots of laughs this weekend... I'm speaking of course of my Vegas benefactor cousin, who is headed to town for some football/tailgating/ridiculousness. It promises to be a good time.

For those of you who wanted to know more about the indiscriminate bitchery of the Admiral's sisters which spawned my own little schpiel, I'll give you some details... Let's see how you all interpret things. Friday night I'd gone out to happy hour with the Admiral and the sisters. We'd had a pretty good time, and all things considered it was uneventful in that nobody was pissed off at anyone, everyone was on speaking terms, etc. After we left the bar we returned to the house belonging to one of the sisters, and continued our drunken amusements. At one point shortly thereafter, I noticed that the Admiral had gone to bed... Knowing that this was not in keeping with the Admiral's behavior, I went looking for her. I found her in a bedroom in tears. After a bit of talking, I determined that while I was chatting with a guy at the bar, the sisters descended in full force on her and basically said anything and everything that they could to verbally shit on the Admiral, her life goals, her newfound happiness in her relationship, her friendship with me, (despite the fact that they both readily admit to the fact that neither of them has any friends,) and everything else they could think of which made her happy in life. Two words: NOT COOL. Not at all cool. After some genuine kindness and honest talk, I calmed the Admiral down, noting that it was two people being jealous of her happiness, and trying to downgrade her happiness and accomplishments in any way just to make themselves feel better. Despite my initial inclination, I said nothing to them, and let it slide knowing that this was a common occurence in their family dynamic, and so I went to bed. The plan for the rest of the weekend was to watch the football game, send the Admiral off to a concert in Cincinnati where she would spend Saturday night and then Sunday, and on Monday we would go to the Admiral's childhood home for a Labor Day BBQ... This was not to be... Shortly after sending the Admiral off to the concert, my phone rang. It was one of the sisters. I answered cordially, saying hello, and asking what was up, and the reply was somewhat shocking. "Um, I'm just calling to let you know that you're officially uninvited to our parents' house on Monday. That's all. ::CLICK::" I didn't even have an opportunity to ask what had happened, or to respond in any way. Obviously shocked, I waited a few minutes to process what had just happened, and to wait for a second phone call to indicate that the first call had been a joke. (Needless to say, that second call never came.) After a cursory few minutes of waiting, I called the Admiral to make her aware of what had just transpired. She was incensed. She noted that she was ashamed that anyone in her family would behave like that, but noted that they had been fighting via phone since she left with her boyfriend to go to the concert. She advised me that she was pissed off beyond belief, and that despite my own shock, not to dignify the incident with any kind of response, and that she'd deal with it... A week later, and she's still not talking to them, there has been no kind of apology from either of the sisters, and the Admiral and I enjoy our evenings by sitting and talking about any number of things and knowing that her sisters are miserable and alone because of their own indiscriminate bitchiness. That might make us bitchy, but I think we're entitled.

Man, that was an excessively long tale without any paragraph breaks... Sorry.

Anyway, that really brings you up to speed... Have a good weekend, and I'll check you later!

No news is not good news...

Still here, still unemployed, still applying for jobs every day, still being boring, still hanging out with the cat, still glad I don't work for those assholes in my hometown anymore.

That's really they update.

Oh, and the Admiral's sisters hate me. And I think it's kind of funny, because they are total bitches like 98% of the time anyway. (Brenda, they would both qualify to teach advanced level courses of indiscriminate bitchery... They don't have a reason to be bitchy, and apparently they don't need one, but they are bitches anyway!)

I really wish I had something more to tell you, especially considering it's been more than a week since my last post, and since I feel like I get dumber and less creative by the hour, because all I do is sit and watch forensic files or other stuff on cable when not applying for jobs, but hey, at the end of this I might be able to commit the perfect crime just using information gleaned from copious amounts of crime tv viewing! (I'm sure that sentence has me flagged on those government lists again! DAMMIT.)

Snarky asshole for hire...

I have applied for countless jobs over the past few weeks. I am only now starting to see some limited results.

I find it utterly ridiculous that someone with my work experience and prowess for professionalism in a text based application format. And it's not like they are giving me interviews and then turning me down because I made some crass joke about something I thought was innocuous but turned out to be something that my interviewer cared deeply for. I mean how the hell was I supposed to know that interviewer was a Hot Wheels aficionado? Or that other interviewer was really sensitive about use of the term "banana hammock?"

I say these things as hypothetical scenarios because lord knows the responses to my job inquiries has been slower than (insert joke about the mentally handicapped, or George W. Bush, or some other such nonsense) ... Slow. You get the idea. And home skillet needs to start generating some revenue.

Basically, I apply for all the jobs I can find, I play word twist on Facebook, I hang out with the cat, I try to come up with other job finding resources, and I dream of human contact.

I'm sorry if I haven't made it around to your blog lately, but if it isn't salacious celebrity gossip, or a job search site, I've been notably absent... I've even been absent here. Sorry. I just lack any and all motivation to do much other than compulsively check my e-mail hoping that someone has discovered my awesomeness and elects to pay me a vast fortune just to be me!

I took geometry back in the day...

When I was in high school, so very long ago, one of the required courses was geometry. I always found geometry came to me rather easily, and I found it very easy to work on a problem with concrete parameters and an easy translation for applications in real life. I never had a problem with algebra either, and I certainly see the real world applications there, too. But once we're getting into imaginary numbers and irrational functions... Well, I'm sorry, if I have to dream up a number because it doesn't exist, and I have to deal with the math being irrational, when I've got friends on the rag who bring plenty of irrationality into my life, well, sorry math, I just can't be bothered.

I mention the topic of geometry because during the recent job search, I have inadvertently stumbled upon the geometry lesson that they don't tell you about in high school.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am of course speaking of the grand pyramid scheme.

Every day, I go to the job search sites I apply to the jobs that look legit, I look for new ads in the paper, I avoid the ads that look a little hinky, or where the salary seems ridiculously high or low for the demands of the job, anything requiring an initial investment on my part, or anything else which raises the ol' mental red flags. And along with the bevy of typical response e-mails indicating that my application has been received, I somehow always manage to also capture the attention of bitches who think I'd be just GREAT at selling life insurance or financial planning services... Trust me people, my life is not insured, and my finances are a wreck... In fact, my life isn't insured probably as a direct result of my finances being a wreck. Simply put, I'm not your girl! And yet they keep calling and e-mailing and stroking my ego by telling me that my work experience and my resume are wonderful, then they tell me what they want me to do. Some of these companies have apparently never heard of Google.com, because when I check them out to do my pre-interview homework, the vast reaches of the internet reveal a plethora of disgruntled folks who were taken in by the superficial glitter applied in attempts to conceal the congealed, pale, moldy underbelly of their corporate reality. And can you believe it, those disgruntled people who thought it would be ok to work for those folks because they just wanted a job, and then found out that they were being taken advantage of, well believe it or not they take to the realms of the internet to give voice to their displeasure.

Apparently I am the only one doing my homework, because there are a crap ton of these people out there saying that they had no indication that they were involved in a pyramid scheme until they were hired and being taken advantage of, in the form of being asked to recruit friends and family, or supply contact information of loved ones to the assholes in charge so that the newly hired peons could advance beyond their unpaid training period.

Well, my momma didn't raise no fool! And unlike those poor bastards, I am smart enough to do my homework in advance. This means I don't waste my time with those asshats... I've had enough employers taking advantage of my work ethic and loyalty while under-compensating me.

So there you have it. I'm not an idiot. I've got a legitimate college degree, and the school loan debt to prove it. I've got a solid work history, and skills which would make me a total asset to any company intelligent enough to put me to work and reward me with fair earnings and perhaps a decent benefit package... (I don't think a few days of PTO in the first year is asking too much.)

The fact remains that I took geometry. And you know what? I aced that bitch! And just like those poor Hebrew slaves thousands of years ago, I don't want anything to do with those fucking pyramids!

This post sponsored by: Momma! (Happy birthday, Miss Becky!)

I'm pretty sure a little bit of pee came out...

A couple of things threw me for a loop today.

First off, let's keep in mind that my roommate spends a great deal of time at her boyfriend's house. Sometimes days on end. And since my car is in the shop, I can't exactly come and go as I please... I pretty much stay at the house, look for a job, talk to the cat, and watch olympic coverage. The admiral hasn't been home for a couple of days... And by "hasn't been home," I mean that I haven't seen her at all since the 12th and what little contact I've had with her has been in the form of text messages.

So I've gotten pretty good at being alone in the house and going about my business.

The first thing that made me pee a little bit was the one text I got from my missing roommate who apparently knows more about the status of my car than I do. It read, "You almost died. Your car was basically a moving bomb." There is no real room for interpretation in those two blunt sentences. They are both pretty matter of fact. And they state very frankly the possibility and proximity of my untimely demise. That makes me pee a little. And not in a good way, even if I am excited to still be alive.

The second thing that made me pee more than a little, was that after deciding to go to bed, or at least retire to my bedroom to read a book to wind down and round out the day, I was startled by a noise in the house. I'm sitting quietly on my bed in the back of the house, with the cat on the foot of the bed, and a book on my lap and suddenly I hear a very loud windows power-down tune... Knowing that my computer isn't on, and that I'm supposed to be alone in the house, I am quite lucky that I didn't end up with a hershey highway in my pantaloons! I give myself some credit for having that much self control. I am really trying to find a rational excuse, but considering it's like 2AM, and I'm hearing computer noises, and I'm supposed to be alone with the cat, well my mind is racing and I'm in full-on bewildered mode. It really doesn't help that I immensely enjoy the breaks in olympic coverage which happen to coincide with shows about hauntings and the like... (It's my thing. I enjoy that shit. Let it go.) But despite being pretty sure that there's a logical explanation for this, the fleeting thought is there because I believe in that stuff!

A few moments later I hear the windows welcome tones... I look at my computer. Still off. And these noises are loud! I'm really bewildered at this point... (Is this what it feels like to be one of those cotton-headed celebrity hoes? Just totally bewildered all the time? That's gotta suck!)

It's then I realize that the Admiral left her computer on several days ago, and despite the fact that the monitor was in hibernate mode, (so that it mentally registered as off to me) the computer itself was still on, it had done an automatic update requiring a restart and so it shut itself down and rebooted. I'm not going to lie, it scared me... Though "startled" might be the more appropriate word.

And now I leave you with the admiral's boyfriend on a mechanical bull... Because that had me nearly pissing myself with laughter last week... Not because it was necessarily all that hilarious, but because it's pretty damned funny just how bad he is.

Getting that feeling...

I've been getting that feeling again. You know the one. It's that feeling that I'm turning into a total downer. Today was no exception to the rule either.

I talked to three people today.

First I talked to the mechanic.

The news wasn't good. The original estimate to get Andy patched up and ready to go was about $400. This call was to say, that number was too low because another part was fucked up. Now I was looking more in the region of $600.

I talked to the admiral and to momma about this. They consoled me some.

The mechanic called back.

"Umm, I found out why those other two parts went bad on you... I found out that the part that supplies those parts with energy shorted them out and proceeded to melt... Brace yourself... Because your new total is $811.45 and the car will be ready Friday."

Well, that's just awesome.

Clearly that's how I planned to spend a huge chunk of what little money I had saved up before leaving my old job.

On that same note however, even with this unfortunate news, and my financial ruin, I am still beyond elated that I don't work for those assholes anymore. It's been a month since my last day there, and I still don't feel the slightest tinge of sorrow for leaving that job.

There's a reason they name boats after women...

So in keeping with my overall run of luck in this life, my car decided to wait until after I was unemployed and relocated to a city where I don't know a reputable mechanic before breaking down. Awesome.

My car's name is Andy. His predecessor's name was Calvin. I name my cars after men for a few very specific reasons:

• Nobody really NEEDS one, but they are nice to have around in a lot of situations.
  
• They are great while they are reliable and make themselves useful, but as soon as they leave you in a lurch, they become nothing but a colossal headache.
• They tend to be less reliable as time goes on.
• The list goes on and on, but you get the overall idea of the comparison.

So other than that excitement, I've been looking for a job, going to fairs, playing with the Admiral's cat during the day, (don't be dirty... I'm not a lesbian,) and lately I've had the added excitement of constant olympic coverage.

I am sorry there's not more meat to this post, but the fact is that there's just not a whole lot going on right now, and I don't want to bore you with all the intricate details of my mundane days... This will change once I find work, I'm sure!

Are you frickin kidding me?

I get back from the wedding in Chicago (which was lovely, by the way, and there are pictures to come soon...) only to find that when I shut down my computer before I left, it performed some kind of automatic update. What exactly was updated, and what was improved, I couldn't tell you. What I can tell you is that my mood was considerably altered for the worse when I opened my browser to find that all of my bookmarks are gone.

Every last one.

SON OF A BITCH!

So I've spent the better part of a day going through my browsing history (which was surprisingly not touched in the apparent overhaul which stole my bookmarks) my sidebar links, other people's sidebar links, and other such nonsense trying to do what science has been unable to accomplish yet, and find the missing links.

I think I've got most of them, but if you know of any places I need to be that I'm not, please let me know, because I am struggling a bit here!

A couple of notes...

First off, I made it here safe and sound... I have really great friends who helped with the loading of the truck, and we all know that the Admiral is my best friend in the world, so her assistance with the unloading was awesome, and considering we're merely two women who have no experience on the professional bodybuilding circuit, I was more than a little impressed with both of us for getting the thing unpacked by ourselves without any assistance from any boys. We also unhitched and re-hitched a car transport trailer, which was an ordeal unto itself, but either way, we got that bitch handled.

The other note is that have done a little tinkering, and removed some of the more superfluous bells and whistles from the site, so that it loads a fair amount faster... I hope this makes you happy, (::Cough, cough, CHRISTIE...::) Actually, the load time has bothered me for a while now, and I've been meaning to fix it, but never really felt so strongly about it to actually get it done until now.

And on one last note, it turns out that I have family that I totally forgot about here in Ohio, and I will totally be bumming a ride with them to the reunion. I am saving myself a lot of miles with that one! (WHEW!)

With that said, I am off to pack my bag for the family reunion, and will be back on Sunday... At which point I will be spending at least some portion of my time looking for a job and taking the most essential items I own out of my MANY MANY assorted boxes and other moving bins and receptacles. At some point I will be back with stories and pictures and love and affection for all of you. Until then, get your chores done, and you can stay up an extra hour before bedtime!

I'll holla at you bitches later!

Don't get your panties in a bunch!

I know that my posting here has been intermittent at best lately, but while quitting my job has afforded me some much needed time for me, (as well as improving my outlook on life overall,) my time has been spent packing my life into boxes in preparation for the big move!

Yes, that's right, Lizzle the nomad has returned once again! (But this time I'm genuinely happy about it!)

I will be picking my truck up on Tuesday, packing it Tuesday evening and with any luck I'll be on the road on Wednesday. After what is sure to be a long day of doing the final cleaning and a lot of driving, I will get to unload everything once again into the Admiral's house so that it stays safe while I look for work that doesn't involve poop shoes, scabies, lice, or welfare cases! All of my crap might get to take a break, but I certainly won't! Because no sooner than I arrive, I will be turning around and driving back to Indiana for the legendary annual family reunion! After which I'll spend roughly a week in Ohio, and then drive up to Chicago for Turkey and Murda's wedding extravaganza! (I will be escorted to the festivities by my spectacular gay boyfriend, Anthony.)

I'll get to run around for a few days in the city I so dearly loved and lost, and then I'll really set to the task of getting to know my new urban environment and hopefully finding regular work in a reasonable amount of time, at which point I'll move again, but let's not worry about crossing that bridge until we get there.

My point is this; once the dust settles, the posting is sure to become more regular, and considering I'll be living with the Admiral for an undetermined period of time, (and in daily contact with her even once we're not living together) the adventures are sure to be amazing and chronicle-worthy, and if I don't wind up in a coma or in jail, I promise to detail them for you in all their drunken, debaucherous, quotable, madcap, manic glory. This, of course, means the likely return of the notably-absent-of-late "Quote of the day!" But for the next couple of weeks, I'm going to be a REALLY REALLY busy bee!

Promise to miss me while I'm gone, do the dishes, take out the trash, and for god sakes, if you're not going to shower every day at least take a few minutes to freshen up! Oh, and for the love of god, someone give the dog a bath!

Oh, and no loud parties! I'm not coming home to bail you out of jail! The neighbors already think that we're a bunch of loud obnoxious miscreants!

The awesomeness continues!

Here's an update:

I still don't work at that hell hole anymore.

It still feels awesome.

I got the scuttlebutt from one of my friends who does still work there, and she told me something that made my blood boil, and also made me even more elated that I no longer work there.

Here's the story:

A friend/co-worker in that dump had a very sudden and very severe stroke several months ago at the young age of 38. As a direct result she took an unpaid medical leave... Now let's not even get into the fact that TWO DAYS after the stroke, someone from our office called and told her husband, (even as she lay partially paralyzed in the hospital bed) that she needed to return her work phone because they couldn't just have her making personal calls all willy-nilly... (But they called her on her personal cell to tell her this... The logic is baffling!) So after months of rehabilitation, her doctor just approved her to come back to work. She is still walking with the aid of a cane, and not 100%, but she's wanting to get back into the swing of things... So she comes into the office and talks to someone about getting cases again. They tell her that's not going to work. Because despite the fact that she had taken an unpaid medical leave, and continued using her medical benefits from the job, they told her that if she wanted to start working again, she would have to REAPPLY! Now as if this alone wasn't humiliating enough, they made her sit and fill out an application in the office, like she's some brand new hire... And please keep in mind that this is an establishment which tears through workers so fast that the turnover rate is astoundingly high, even for a social work setting, and as a result they are CONSTANTLY in search of people to take cases! And they did it in spite of the fact that she's been an employee ACTIVELY using her health coverage while on an UNPAID MEDICAL LEAVE for having a FUCKING STROKE! Now correct me if I'm wrong here, but isn't the whole point of a LEAVE OF ABSENCE to hold your position so that you have a job to go back to when you're done? If she's smart she'll file a lawsuit, but considering she's going back to that shit at all after they called to have her return her phone, and then forced her to go through the reapplication process, I don't think she will... But if it was me, you can bet I'd sue the pants off those fuckers.

Well, I'll just continue to sit and laugh my ass off for all the sorry suckers who still work there as I pack all of my worldly possessions into boxes and haul those boxes to Ohio! And I'll keep laughing no matter what job I get there, because ANYTHING is better than that bullshit!

Wait... It gets better?????

Just when I thought today couldn't get any better, my dad called.

Previous entries would make you believe that my dad calling instantly spelled bad news for my otherwise awesome day of liberation. And ordinarily you'd be right in thinking that way... But not today. NOTHING WAS GOING TO RUIN TODAY! NOTHING!

So he starts up conversation under the guise that he's coming to town and wants to get together. That's all well and good, because when he comes to town, he pays for the bar tab, and since alcohol is the only legal substance which facilitates and eases the tensions of me tolerating my father, I suffer his presence for a free night at the bar, and upon departing the bar, I contact all my inappropriate friends for more laughter and merriment without the drudgery of his company.

After a couple minutes of pleasantries, he segued over into more talk of the move... He asked what my decision to move would do to my mother.

"What does your mom think about this? How is she going to deal with it?"

"Dad, mom is fine with it. She's a big girl, she knows that she can call me any time she wants to, she can come and visit as often as her schedule allows, and she knows that I'm an adult and this is what's best for me."

"I imagine this will just destroy your poor mother."

"Well, you imagine wrong... She's fine with it, and in fact encouraging it because she knows I've been miserable here."

That effectively shut him up, though I imagine he'll have more to say when he comes to town... I'm fine with that too, because if he's going to try to guilt me into being miserable in my adult life for the sake of my mother's feelings, (which he should not pretend to know,) then I can guilt him right back by noting that his feigned concern for my mother's well being and feelings is the first time I've ever heard him express any concern for how she might feel in my 26 years on earth... And furthermore, the ploy didn't work because mom is in full support of the whole thing. That ought to piss him off good and proper.

So how does all of this improve my already excellent day? I'm in the mood for a little recap of the awesomeness anyway, so here goes!

Well lets see...

1) I quit that awful job once and for all.

2) Quitting that job allows me the freedom to move out of the festering cesspool of mediocrity known as my hometown in pursuit of greener pastures and higher education.

3) Moving without running it past dad has him so pissed off that he's been mulling it over since the last time we talked, and the best he can come up with to try and alter my course of action is an ineffective guilt trip... So I got to do exactly what I wanted to do all along AND I get to piss off my dad and make him feel impotent at the same time! And stealing dad's thunder by shooting him down like that really was just the icing on the cake!

GOSH THIS REALLY IS THE BEST DAY EVER!

Employer-ectomy...

The title gives you the right idea. I am done with working for the soul-sucking despots, and being totally unencumbered from my bonds there feels much the same way that I imagine a person feels when they have a giant tumor removed... Only my tumor consisted of about 200 people,(mostly benign, but at least 20 of them totally malignant,) four offices, 9 vans, a crap ton of useless individuals who had the benefit of being paid for all the hard work I was doing, without ever dealing with it and getting their hands dirty themselves, and a partridge in a pear tree. I don't know what all of that would add up to weight wise, but I think it goes without saying that it would be a LOT, and not carrying around the burden of that nasty tumor feels really good.

REALLY REALLY GOOD.

My friends and family have said that even since I gave notice they've noticed a change for the better in me. They say I smile more and I laugh easier, and there are fewer mentions of doom and gloom... I've seen it too. During my last week, I was working on paperwork, and a coworker who I had a little regular contact with was chatting me up, and suddenly gave me a very puzzled look. When I inquired as to why he was giving me that look, he informed me that the look on my face was foreign and he didn't know how to respond because he'd never seen it in our offices before. Needless to say I was smiling.

During the last two weeks in that hell, I talked to everyone around who I ever determined to have any sense, and encouraged them to make a run for it too... Short of personally organizing a mass walkout, I think I did all I could in the time I had remaining while still managing to get paid... I was more than a little subversive in my tactics, but if you ask me they deserved it.

Now the process of packing begins. I'll be packing all week, canoeing this weekend, and attending my going away party, hauling my crap to Ohio, coming back to clean my apartment, and pick up my car, and then attending my family reunion before landing solidly in my new home state. It promises to be a very full couple of weeks.

You'll be hearing from me... I don't know when exactly, but just keep checking in.

And if you have noticed a marked absence of my commenting at your blog, don't be offended. My computer charger shorted out, and I haven't been online lately beccause I can't charge my battery, but I promise that as soon as the new charger I ordered comes in, I'll make the rounds and catch up.

And to the commenter who wanted to find the song "Crazy Mary," I can help you out with that, but it'll have to wait until my new charger comes in, so shoot an e-mail my way and I'll get back to you with the file.

That is all.

Have a nice day my little chickadees! (I know I finally will!)

The home stretch...

The day I've so eagerly anticipated for the last 18 months has nearly arrived! It's almost finally here! The one handed countdown has begun! T-minus 5 days until I can make my way out of hell once and for all! Saints be praised! And I managed to do it all without contracting any funky diseases, without getting shot or stabbed, without so much as a black eye! I did have a few bumps and bruises, one sprained ankle, a few scrapes, one dog bite, and a lot of nights where sleep was fitful at best and nonexistent at worst, but all in all, I made it out relatively unscathed.

I can't say the same for the poop shoes, which tragically did not survive to see this glorious day, nor the articles of clothing worn into the scabies and lice house... but all in all, we've made it out in one piece.

I am composing this post now, instead of at the end of the week, because I can say without much hesitation that nothing is going to happen to me this week... I know this, because contrary to what my superiors believe, I am perfectly ok with phoning it in for the last few days when I don't have to worry about accountability. I've already passed my cases on to other people who will work them in a manner less impressive than my own, so I'm not overly concerned with someone questioning anything I have done so far... I know this because I got results. And everyone knows I didn't walk out when I had to treat the scabies house for lice, so they probably figure I'm a person of principle... Those silly, silly folks! They've crushed my soul enough. I think it's only fair that I get one week of slacktasticness on the clock!

5 days mother bitches! FIVE DAYS!

On a scale of one to ten rating my happiness to exit that hell known as my workplace, I'm going to rate my pleasure somewhere in the 67.437 range.

GO ME!

... Man I rock so hard at life!

Is that too much to ask?

I called my dad tonight. Those of you who've been around long enough know that my dad and I don't have the most sound and deeply rooted relationship. In fact, you might want to go ahead and just call it what it is, totally superficial, usually alcohol-fueled, seldom mutually beneficial, and based solely on the premise that as family members we are often compelled to make appearances at the same family related gatherings. (Which if we're replacing the "family" with "friend" in that description, it would pretty aptly capture most of my interaction with the rest of the male gender through the course of my life so far... It would be really awkward to go trolling for boys at family events... I might have a southern accent, but that just ain't happenin, SICKO!!) So it just goes to show you, your parents really are your models for how you function in society.

Anyway. Moving on.

So while talking to my dad, he asked how work was going. I informed him that it was fine considering that I only had two weeks left, and that knowing that has made me able to tolerate just about anything... Which barely makes everyday functions on my job even remotely bearable.

His response was not what I expected. It was a heavy sigh and a loaded silence... (I HATE THOSE.) He then launched into the question mode... Like I was making this decision on a whim, and not with two years of planning and the ultimate goal of furthering my education by going to GRAD SCHOOL!

I then spent the next twenty minutes explaining that this has been the plan for over two years, and that my working situation has driven me so close to the edge of homicide or suicide that I knew it was time to just take that next step and make it happen. I explained the plan, the safety net I have in place, the logistics of moving, everything he questioned I had a sound and reasoned response in place. And yet, you'd have thought that I had told him that I was selling off all of my worldly possessions to get the financing to get my meth lab up and running. I mean I might as well have said, "Dad, I'm washing my hands of all worldly possessions and backpacking through Europe sustaining myself by doing performance art involving gratuitous nudity, a nail gun, peanut butter, a live chicken, a taxidermied iguana, and a bunch of ping pong balls... Oh, and some Ritz crackers, because peanut butter ain't shit without some motherfucking Ritz crackers!"

Meanwhile my mother knows how unhappy I've been, and knows that this has been the plan all along, (largely because she LISTENS when I talk) and she of course is very supportive. She knows that getting out of my job will make me immensely happy. She knows that getting out of this craphole town will even further heighten my elation, and she also knows that grad school is the ultimate goal. She reasoned that dad was probably pissed off because I was telling dad all of this after the decision was already made, and not consulting him for some pearls if wisdom in advance. I think she's probably right... In which case the last 26 years have taught him ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, because I've always been one of those different drummer, independent, doing it my own way because I like my way better kind of people. ALWAYS.

So after twenty minutes of a conversation which served no purpose other than to royally chap my ass, I bid him farewell, because I wasn't about to stay on the phone with him if he wasn't going to utter the least little bit of support. That's all I really wanted. A little verbal, "Well, go get em kiddo!" It's not like I was asking for money to cover my moving expenses. But apparently being suicidally unhappy for the long term and drawing a paycheck by working at a job which is tantamount to shoving bamboo chutes under my fingernails is better than a short term of job searching in a better job market in the state where I plan to go to graduate school... Yeah, clearly that's rational.

So here's to you dad, thanks for being so sage and rational or if not sage and rational, at least showing a modicum of support and respecting my decisions as an intelligent reasonable adult here... OH WAIT... That wasn't you! SILLY ME! NEVERMIND! Happy motherfucking birthday.

(Do I sound bitter? Because I swear I'm not bitter AT ALL.)

The only thought in my head!

With the holiday this week, (one of the few which my office chooses to recognize and for which they give us a damn day off,) they decided that they didn't want to have to work harder in the office to process our paperwork, so they make us work harder and have it in a day early. (This is another of the lovely ways they choose to fuck with the field workers, but really, that's a whole other ball of wax.) So anyway, I opted out of a nice night of binge drinking and like a good little soldier, I got my paperwork in. But as I was driving along, there was one thought repeatedly cycling through my brain... This one lone thought was was on that automatic one track repeat mode... And I relished it.

All I kept thinking was, "THANK FUCKING GOD I ONLY HAVE TO DO THIS FOR TWO MORE WEEKS!"

Now, while I know everyone's gotta eat, and that usually entails working hard and earning a paycheck, I also know that its not any good for anyone to stay in a working environment which creates a hatred so penetrating that even after notice has been given, the one thought is, one of the "Thank god I'm getting out" category. I mean yeah, we've all had crappy jobs at one point or another, but the thing is, that once you know you're out, your sole all-consuming thought shouldn't be that, but rather focused on, "Oh I'm going to miss so and so..." or "Oh, I hope my new job has X, Y, and Z." Instead, I was focused on getting that paperwork out of my hot little hands, and not gnashing my teeth so hard that I ground them into the tiny broken stubs I see in the mouths of my meth addicted clients every day.

This is especially tragic when you consider the field I'm in. It's one of social service, where we know somewhat about what we're getting into before we ever get there, and we do it anyway out of a sense of service to humanity and helping those who can't seem to help themselves. This is a field where the people doing the heavy lifting are doing it because they have a deep passion for the job, and they are committed to making things better for kids who wouldn't stand a chance otherwise. And in spite of all the positive, socially and morally just reasons to do what I do, I can't wait to be done with it because my office makes it so unbearable that they suck all the passion and humanity out of everyone who works there. So, yeah, I'm leaving a job with a steady paycheck at the beginning of a recession... But I'd rather be unemployed and miserable for a year than work another day for those conniving, scheming bastard assholes. And that's saying something!

A need for clarity

Being as this is a two post day, and comments were limited on my "I'm quitting" post, I feel the need to issue a clarification statement on my own behalf after that last post... Hopefully a few of you out there will give enough of a damn to read the posts and catch up if you're feeling out of the loop.

So here's the thing. My last post mentioned that I told a caseworker that I wanted to punch a woman in the face after spending three hours in a meeting with her. I don't think it's any huge shock to any of you that in the event that if I should (and do) get stuck in a room with someone who lacks any common sense, and who is contradicting my every statement with every breath she takes and every word she speaks when I am speaking on behalf of a child who's interests I'm looking out for, and who she supposedly loves due to familial ties... Well, I'm drunk right now, and losing track of that complex sentence... Anyway, it was obvious that I was looking out for the kid, and this lady was looking out for her worm of a brother who is only in this situation because he was manufacturing meth... If I'm more of an advocate for this kid than her own damn aunt, that's saying something, and I had every right to want to punch her in the face. The case worker loved it, and even if I wasn't leaving in two weeks, once they'd left the room, I'd have said the exact same thing in the exact same context. I didn't say it in front of the boss who runs the show that pays my salary, and even if it was, I'm pretty sure he'd have been right there backing me up, and in point of fact, probably reiterating my point by stating that he too wanted to punch her in the face! The doc is down with that in certain situations.

The fact is that I implied to the doc weeks ago that I was leaving and that I would be grateful for a letter of recommendation for my grad school application. He indicated then that he would be more than happy to oblige. So unless over the course of the next two weeks I lose my gourd completely, and show up to the office with my handy dandy grenade launcher, and a borrowed uzi, I think I've got my recommendation in the bag.

Either way, I'm out of there in two weeks and the end can't come soon enough! Every day my smile grows a little wider, and is a little bit harder to wipe off, even in totally inappropriate situations... In fact, I'd say that now more than ever I smile at the worst times, because I just think to myself, "Oh, I am so out of here, and in two weeks I'll never have to think about putting up with this particular brand of bullshit EVER again!" And if that ain't worth a smile, I don't know what is!

In the words of William Wallace, "FREEEEEEEEDOOOOOOOM!"

Knowing that I'm not going to be around my workplace much longer has certainly afforded me a newfound freedom. Yeah, I was pretty liberal with running my mouth around the office before, and caring very little what most people thought about what I had to say, now that I don't have to worry about retaining my position, I don't worry what comes out of my mouth AT ALL.

It has gotten so ridiculous that after a lengthy meeting with a case worker, (who dictates how things go on the case) my co-workers, the family involved, and people whom they were allowed to invite to the meeting, I waited until the room was cleared of everyone but the caseworker and my coworkers, and said, "I don't know about any of you, but for the last three hours I've just wanted nothing more than to punch that woman in the face!" This statement might have been a compromise of my professionalism to an extent, but judging by the response it got, I know that I was not alone. Either way, it's probably not something that could or should be said in front of a case worker when one is interested in keeping their position.

This shit just cracks me up and makes me so damn happy that I won't have to deal with it anymore!

Well, there's that...

Ok, so the doctor's visit was kind of bullshit. We're not going to get into it because the more I think about it, the madder I get. The upswing is that I'm pretty sure that the river has run dry. (YAY!)

And then there's work... I went in today and despite being able to put it off a bit longer, I went ahead and submitted 3 weeks notice... So basically, I'm feeling like this guy:



Like him, I quit my job, and will soon have no income, but who cares, because right now, I FEEL GREAT!

To use one of Elaine's favorite words, HOLY FRIJOLES!

Skip this italic paragraph if you don't even want to think about something vaguely gross..

Ok, so... Turns out that my original calculations of my ongoing battle with Aunt Flo were inaccurate. We are now at day 25. Still no signs of stopping. I have got an appointment to get things checked out, but that won't happen until next Monday. I've tried getting in before that, and, well, it just ain't happening! If things haven't improved before then, I'll probably be a shriveled mass on my bathroom floor, because this constant fluid loss is taking it's toll on me. Seriously... There is absolutely NO REASON that this should be happening. It's totally uncalled for, and if I weren't so drained of all energy due to a chronic fatigue which set in around day 9, well, let's just say I'd be hell on wheels... Much more than usual.

Ok, now that that's behind us, let's move on to more pleasant things. The Admiral's visit went well, and we are both getting excited about my transition to Ohio... Yeah, you read that right, I'm actually excited to move to Ohio. I hope that's an indication of just how ridiculous things are here. We've already had a firing and two people quit without giving any kind of notice this week... That's just this week... We had something like 4 people quit and 2 get fired last week... It's an ongoing trend, and considering the whole company over the vast expanses of the state only employs something like 150 people, this turnover rate is obscene! One would think that the company would wise up and start treating their people better so that they could keep them a little longer, but apparently they are happy with killing our souls, and destroying their own reputation to the point where no one will ever want to work there. It's sad that I've been there for 18 months and I have a year's seniority over people who are considered senior staff members... I mean if you've been there 6 months you are considered a senior member of the staff? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I honestly don't even bother learning people's names until they've been there for 4 or 5 months, because so few stick around for any real length of time. But hey, it's not my company, and I'm leaving in a month, so what the hell do I care?

I'll have pictures up from the Admiral's visit and a few other events up in the not too distant future.

As the Admiral was a political science major in her undergraduate studies, I will now leave you with the BEST political rant that I've seen in a VERY LONG TIME.

I know it sounds like I'm just brushing you off...

I'm not trying to imply that your words of wisdom are not worthy of my attention, but I REALLY don't think that this issue is stress related.

Despite all the other crap going on in my little corner of the universe, I'm actually pretty calm about all of it. I've mellowed considerably since giving notice on my apartment so that I can move when the time comes, and that has put a light at the end of the tunnel for my working woes, and those woes really are my worst. I mean yeah, like most people, I still have the occasional worry about money issues, and I've still yet to figure out how I'm going to get all of my crap moved, but honestly, I don't think that this is a stress generated issue. The only thing that's got me stressing is the fact that it's been going on for 16 days, and shows no signs of abating. I've been taking iron supplements just to make sure that I'm not so anemic that I pass out on the job.

And the upswing of that mess, is that I'm a really cheap date when I head to the bar! Seriously, like three drinks, and I'm properly buzzed, which only further reduces my stress levels.

The Admiral is headed into town on Friday evening, so I'll be getting properly schnockered all weekend long! Pictures and post to follow!

Dear fan, prepare to meet a large heap of shit...

Yeah, as miserable as things have been lately, there are no signs of any kind of improvement.

As excited as I am to quit my job, I am not putting in my notice until the last possible moment. I will give appropriate notice, but I'm not saying anything until I absolutely have to. Why? Because I don't want to get stuck with some half-wit trainee who I would get the dubious honor of training. Yeah, our office, despite an astronomically high turnover rate, and an abysmally low job satisfaction rate, expects the current workers to train the folks that they hire to replace those of us who have the good sense to get out now... Even when we're on our way out the door. Personally, I think it's beyond unprofessional to ask people who are quitting to train the newbies, I mean it's a more accurate picture for the newbies, but once you've established to the supervisors that you're outie boom boutie, there are all kinds of things you're willing to say to some slack-jawed peon who is just coming aboard which you wouldn't be willing to say if you were at all concerned about long term job security.

In other work related news, the Tuesday morning staff meeting was just loaded with all kinds of half-cocked, harebrained idiocy which serves no purposes other than to reduce morale, cheat the field workers who are the ones out there doing the work that generates all the money, and generally piss everyone off... But someone thought it sounded good... (Someone was HIGHLY mistaken.) And from what I gather, based on numerous reports from my friends at various levels and positions around the office, things are only going to get worse... I can't imagine how, but someone over there will dream up a way! They always do. I'm told to be glad that I'm getting out now because things are supposedly going to get REALLY REALLY ugly, and they are supposed to get really ugly REALLY fast.

In other working world news, the job that I was counting on jumping to once I moved is not mine. They hired someone else because they were already local and they didn't want to wait for me to move... So I'm moving anyway, and hopefully I'll find something to go to. And if I don't, I'll just leech off of The Admiral for a little while.

In more personal news, I was originally just joking about that Lyme disease thing... Turns out, not so much a joke anymore, as the site of the tick bite on my hip has remained red and itchy... Not a good sign. I've been taking antibiotics as a precaution, but things are slow to improve. This really fits in with my luck.

Speaking of my bad luck and apparently poor health, (please cease and desist all reading now if you are at all squeamish about the human body or it's many disgusting processes).

I've called to get a doctor's appointment not only to get that tick bite checked out, but also because I am suffering from major fatigue, and anemia. I'm suffering these problems because I have had a really long bout with the female curse. We're talking like continuous uninterrupted flow for over 2 weeks now... I have called my doctor, but it seems the first available appointment is in 2 weeks. Meanwhile, my hemorrhaging and my general misery might very well persist.

When I called to make the appointment, the receptionist asked if I was just scheduling an annual exam. I told her I needed to schedule an annual too, but at the moment I was having a pretty significant problem. I noted that I'd been flowin' down the red river for a good 16 days now, and she asked if that was it, or if I had any other symptoms such as cramping or headaches... I think this woman must be some kind of rocket scientist, because I told her, "Yeah, I've been having headaches and cramping, and some serious fatigue, but last time I checked those were part of the standard period package... The heavy bleeding for 16 continuous days on the other hand, not quite so much something I was ready for." I'm calling again tomorrow and getting upset if they don't at least make an effort to squeeze me in sooner, lest I bleed out in the meantime.

Someone just shoot me and put me out of my misery.

Heebie Jeebies...

If that last post didn't make you itch merely out of the power of suggestion, then this one should be a cake walk.

So I went about my business today, working hard. (Yeah, right, who are we kidding here?) And upon the completion of my duties, I came home, had dinner, made some calls, and then went to Traci and Addison's house to wrap gifts for a friend's bachelorette party. (Yeah, just an FYI, it's not a wise idea to invite me or Traci to your bachelorette party... Rather than being all demure and getting cutesy lingerie, Traci and I raunch it up in the best/worst possible way!) But all of this is beside the point.

After having completed our wrapping, Traci and I were sitting out on her balcony. We chatted for a bit, and before leaving I stated that I needed to use their bathroom. After doing my business, I look down at my hip to see a little dark spot that I was not accustomed to seeing. I look a little closer, and wouldn't you know, it's a tick! Naturally, I was surprised by the presence of this creature on my person, as I have not been camping, or hanging out in any wooded areas at any point during my work day, and I know that I rather thoroughly check myself out for any other abnormalities any time I shower, (i.e. EVERY NIGHT, unlike the folks at the scabies and lice house!) And given its conspicuous location, I'm pretty sure it hadn't been there for very long. It had bitten me, but wasn't all giant and engorged... But being the informed and paranoid jackass that I am, I get all worried about the potential for Lyme disease, (read "potential for Lyme disease" as "just my fucking luck!")

God, I hate that I know enough to worry about this shit.

So upon announcing this to the rest of the folks at Traci and Addi's place, I was informed that apparently it's going to be a really bad year for ticks. And like I said, I haven't been out in the woods, any wooded area, humping any trees, or anything of that sort, so I kinda believe them.

So if I suddenly start complaining of a rash on my hip, or of flu-like symptoms, just know that I probably have a nasty case of Lyme disease, and will then promptly turn up dead. It's gonna ROCK!

I have since had the mental suggestion of all these things causing more psychosomatic itchies, and have been compulsively been checking for more ticks, scabies, lice, and everything else that I seem to be at risk for since apparently it's my lot in life to be constantly exposed to hazardous crap which will ultimately be my demise. AWESOME.

Go check yourself out. Make sure that the ticks haven't invaded your body too! Let my downfall be a lesson to you... No need for both of us to die!

Looking for the next available exit... (this post is LONG and gets UGLY but is worth it in my mind.)

I have to say, if I weren't already looking to get out of my current job, I would most definitely be looking elsewhere after my experiences today.

"What could possibly have so soured you on the job you already clearly hate?" you ask, unsure if you really want to know more.

An excellent question my friend.

After having spent 9 months making daily visits to "the poop house" you'd figure I'd have already dealt with the worst of the worst... And in a way, that's correct. That house was most assuredly the earthly portal to hell. But the bright spot in that festering craphole of humanity was that I never had to touch anything... I mean yes, I did have to wear special "poop shoes" to go into that house, but the poop shoes were only for my own personal comfort, so that I could be sure that those shoes were relegated to the fate of NEVER re-entering my home after taking but a single step into that heap of unfathomable foulness. Those poor shoes, (an old, loyal, well-worn pair of New Balances, previously reserved for lawn mowing duties) took their first steps into the "poop house" and from that moment on they were solidly banished to a secured garbage bag in the floorboard of my back seat, and were ceremonially destroyed/disposed of when the case closed. But all of this is beside the point... The poop house stories are being stored in a deep dark cellar where distance and time will age them like the rare vintage they are... Believe me, if you hang out long enough, you will be allowed to partake in that exceptional selection. On to more pressing matters...

So despite my history of tolerating all the foulness that the poop house dished out, today was a topper.

To give you a little background, this is yet another dirty house. And in my line of work, to get a call on a dirty house, it's a particularly special brand of funk-nasty. I mean, do you have any idea how disgusting a house has to be before the state will take your children away as a result? Well, I'll tell you that whatever you're imagining, triple the level of foulness, rub some dog shit on it, sprinkle on a healthy smattering of human fecal matter, and then don't take the trash out of the equation, EVER... For at least a year... YEAH, just HEAP that garbage on there! Now we're in the neighborhood containing the ballpark... And even if you're not in the neighborhood containing the ballpark, you're at least probably playing the right sport.

There is nothing worse in my office than a dirty house case. Well... strike that... I think that the dirty houses might actually compete with the molestation/incest cases for first place in the "best of the worst" category. (We're getting into the whole "incident vs. lifestyle" argument, and that's a rabbit hole we're not ready to delve into fully... We're talking "The Matrix" level of other worldly comprehension, so really it's just better if you take my word for it and we move on, because I don't have the a $350,000,000 budget to produce the movies to convince you...) Either way, you're getting the idea that this is not a place I want to be even on a good day... And today was BAAAAAAAAAD. REALLY REALLY BAAAAAAAAD.

So yesterday I go into this dirty house thinking I'm going to point out the things that they need to clean, and the order in which tasks need to be accomplished, starting with the most egregious. The father in the home informs me that the mom has head lice. This alone would be plenty foul. But when we compound this with another fact that I learned on Tuesday, both parents were in fact INFESTED with scabies, we again enter that whole other rabbit hole realm of disgusting-funk-tastic. (I'd like to point out that I took a break just before this point to drink off my daily events, and am currently pretty intoxicated, but we've got work to do... Back to the story.)

So... This disgusting dirty house is populated by two adults. There is constantly garbage on every conceivable surface, which I inexplicably have to point out and instruct them to throw away. The laundry hasn't been done in god only knows how long, there are no sheets on the bed because they are content to sleep on a plain ol' grubby beat down mattress, and now they have lice... And SCABIES!!! (...Oh, and I am in hell.)

I call and report all of this to the state case worker, and call the person responsible for providing the visitation, and everyone else I can conceivably drag into this debacle with me. The office supervisor states that he doesn't think we can suspend visitation over lice and scabies, and I essentially told him to fuck off, went over his head, and suspended visitation on my own because it was the right thing to do. They could fire me if they wanted to, (in which case I'd have been extremely grateful, and then they could pay my severance and unemployment while I sit on my ass all day like my clients, because once you know how to work the system, you can live pretty well on very very little.) Either way, I'm right in this instance.

At this point in time, I become a seething, burning, multi-layered anger parfait.

So because of the health risks involved, and because of the fact I am the only one willing to do a damn thing about it, I had to be the one to tell the parents that their visitation was suspended until further notice. It's roughly at this point when I had to get mean. They got all defensive saying, "Well that's not fair!" To which I had no choice but to respond in that hateful, seething tone previously reserved for D-bags at bars who couldn't take a hint, "Actually, NO... You want to know what's unfair? Unfair would be allowing visits with you despite the fact that you have NOT ONE, BUT TWO ailments which are BOTH easily transmittable by any close contact. Let's say you hug your kid, give her either one, or both of your problems, and then not only does she get to suffer from those ailments, she also goes back to foster care, and gives it to every adult and child she comes into contact with, and then 10 people are infected with these problems rather than just you two... Just because you think it's unfair. So... You continue having visits with your kid, despite knowing about the problems which are easily transferable to other people. Your kid gets scabies and lice, the foster parents get scabies and lice, all the other kids at the foster placement get scabies and lice. All the other kids we transport in our cars and car seats get scabies and lice... All because you say that it's unfair? WRONG-O! So, no... Those other people at risk of getting infected because you can't manage some shampoo and a little washcloth time? THAT'S UNFAIR! So whether you like it or not, or whether you think it's fair or not, it's not up to you."

I might have felt like I'd overstepped the mark with tone and manner of delivery, but what came next was the icing on the cake, or in my case, the mustard on the turd sandwich.

"Well we don't know what to do..."

Since I'd called the case worker three days prior, and not heard back, this was something I was forced to deal with.

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Help."

"Help with what exactly?"

"Help us with the treatment."

"I'll get back to you on that... The scabies you've got to see a doctor for... I can't do anything for that. We'll talk about the lice later."

So I eventually got a call back from the case worker. She determined that I was right in suspending the visitation. (A little vindication which didn't at all make up for what she was about to dump on me.) She determined that since the parents weren't the brightest crayolas in the box that I needed to assist them with the treatment of the lice... And by assist them with treatment, she meant that I would need to go in, spend three hours IN THE SCABIES AND LICE HOUSE, AND TREAT THEM MY GODDAMNED SELF.

SPEC-FUCKING-TACULAR!

SOOOOOO.... I blocked off a LARGE portion of my work day. I put on shorts and a t-shirt. I then put on a pair of adidas track pants with the tight elastic at the bottom cuff, which I had every intention of throwing away anyway, and another shirt which I decided would need to be discarded after this debacle. I then popped on a full length lab coat from my mom's office, (which she told me I could burn after use,) rubber gloves, and a super sexy shower cap... Short of being hermetically sealed in saran wrap, I was covered from head to toe in gear specifically designed for this purpose... (I only wished a haz-mat suit was something I had access to.) And I had every intention of disposing of my garb ASAP upon completion of my mission.

I then spent the next few hours using a fine toothed comb and lice treatment gel on both of them.

Somehow through the whole process I managed to control my gag reflex.

I then told them that they had better have paid attention to how the process was done, because neither I, nor anyone at my office would EVER do it for them EVER again, and informed them about how to go about treating the rest of the home. And then I exited the home.

Prior to re-entering my car, I took off the gloves, the shower cap, the lab coat, the pants, the shirt, and every other conceivable aspect of external garb, and deposited into a plastic bag which was then promptly deposited into a dumpster which happened to be readily available.

I then drove home and proceeded to take the most scalding hot, super exfoliating, uber-scrubbing shower you can possibly imagine. (And, not that you need to know this, but short of removing the hair on the top of my head, and my eyebrows, I shaved pretty much every bodily surface within reach.)

And I still had the psychosomatic itchies all day... as I used to get even post-shower on days when I had to go to the poop house where I never touched a thing. (Never underestimate the brain's retention of latent suggestion, even after you know you've taken every conceivable step to prevent any issues.)

So... If you want to complain about your job, go for it... I'm all ears!

Good luck competing. I hardly think that the abnormally loud talker in the next cubicle compares... But really, go ahead! I can't wait to hear what you've got to complain about!





(Yes, I know I need to get another goddamned job... I'm working on it, as is everyone else I know well enough to call in a hiring-related favor.)

Don't ever wonder why my job makes me hate life EVER AGAIN... And if you know a social worker, go thank them! And if they have had to go into a scabies/lice/poop house lately, after making sure they've showered like any rational human being, HUG THEM!

The direct line...

We all know that I take a pretty direct approach to things around here. And it's easy to be direct when you're just yammering on about anything you want into the vast reaches of anonymity known as the internet. I mean you don't really have to answer to anyone for anything, and provided you keep certain things to yourself, nobody can really do a damn thing about it because it's a right to free speech and editorialism. You might run into a few complaints if you start blogging about your plan to do serious physical harm to public figures, or if you decide you're going to publish your plan to blow up a building or something... (I'm betting that those two key phrases probably have my page being checked out by someone in some national security office right about now... But if that's the case, then they're missing the overall point.) The point is that directness is easily achieved when there is no accountability.

So then there's the remaining question; is it possible that I actually live my life the same way I go on and on here?

Well as a matter of fact, I do.

In fact, in real life I think I am far more brazen and crass than I ever let on here. I mean the editing process obviously allows me to rethink some of the more offensive comments I make before publishing them for the world to find. And in real life I am certainly much more profane. I mean if we're on the subject of profanity, I would like to point out that when I'm alone in my car, driving from one client's home to the next, I curse a blue streak, scream, pound on the steering wheel, and generally wish I had the James Bond budget to install machine guns in my headlights... But that's really neither here nor there.

I suppose I focused in on this topic because today while at the office (in the computer lab/lounge) I was loudly and profanely expressing my displeasure with my caseload. A nearby coworker who is not yet as jaded as I am about the whole thing looked at me blankly in shock and amazement and asked if I was always so brazen. I naturally affirmed this. And several other nearby coworkers nodded or otherwise replied in agreement. The fact that I have no qualms about expressing my displeasure over my job, and the fact that I really don't care who knows about it has only exacerbated this alacrity and zeal for making my honest opinions known. Of course, when with a client, or the company owner/boss from whom I will be needing a letter of recommendation to grad school, I am still capable of civility and censorship. (Or at least the appearance of such for the time being...) But the mental tabulations of any snide remarks is kept and shared with others as soon as those folks are out of earshot.

And while I do on a rare occasion make a total ass of myself, I apologize to the cursory people and move on to more crassness and offensive behavior. (I'm not so crass or offensive to be compared with someone like say Steve-O, but then again, I don't walk down a whole lot of red carpets upon which I have the option to publicly urinate... And I got enough love and attention from my mother while growing up, so that's not something I'm striving to achieve either.) But the apologies are rare, and I only issue them after careful consideration as to whether or not I feel that something I've said or done merits an apology, and whether or not I feel the offended party is deserving of said apology. And I like to think that based on the number of people who seem to really enjoy my company, I'm pretty sure that the judgment on those rare apologies is sound. In fact, the level to which I am revered by the coworkers and friends who have already clearly stated that they will miss me when I depart for greener pastures makes me pretty sure that I'm going about this with the right approach.

One of my favorite lines in "As Good As It Gets" is spoken by Greg Kinnear's character. He notes, "The best thing you have going for you is your willingness to humiliate yourself." Truer words were never spoken, and that has essentially become my motto. If you're not willing to go out on that limb and embarrass and make an ass of yourself from time to time, you miss out on all the fun that's involved. Yes there's a time and a place for civility and refinement, but by comparison it's a pretty small portion of the time.

I mean sure we could pussy foot around an issue all day, saying things in a politically correct and diplomatic way so that nobody gets their feelings hurt, but when you take the opportunity to just go the direct route and say what you mean the way you want to say it, the fact is that you save EPIC amounts of time in the long run.

So, who have you offended today?

Stick it to the man... But not really...

This weekend was essentially an exercise in debauchery... The drunken kind, which became my forte in college and the years immediately after.

Thursday night I went out to celebrate my interview with the firm I'm looking to join, and to just carouse and enjoy myself as a mode of decompression during the work week. It was a rousing success for the three of us who showed up.

Friday I worked, got off of work a little early when a mom no-showed for her visit, and so I then went to a friend's house for a little drunken get together she was having. (Momma had a date, and since my friends all know and adore momma, she came along to give up some of the details, and she enjoyed herself.) I drank sufficiently that an overnight (without the possibility of getting laid) was in order.

Saturday I got up obscenely early considering I'd been up until 5 AM the night before, worked a cursory amount, and then momma invited me out to dinner to meet this new fella. So I went to dinner, found him to be pretty charming, handsome for a gentleman of an appropriate age bracket to date my mother, and engaging. All in all, I approved.

By the time I got home from dinner, I was so tired from my previous nights outings, and elected to go to bed... Never in my life have I been so excited to go to bed alone. By 8:30 PM, despite still having my eyes open, my body was doing that jerking-to-stay-awake thing, and I resolved to myself that I was going to make it to 9:00 merely out of principle. I made it to 9:15, and then I slept for the next 13 hours. Proving yet again that I don't have the short recovery time that I once did.

Sunday I did the church thing, lazed around the house, chatted on the phone, and accomplished very very little. Momma had invited me to dinner at her house complete with her fella and grandpa. I again found her beau to be charming, and there was only one small hiccup which bothered me for a moment. It seems that this gentleman has a bit of difficulty with taking a compliment, but I'll let that slide as long as he's good to my mom. I left reasonably early under the guise that I was going to work on my paperwork... That paperwork thing didn't happen.

I toyed with the idea of doing it, knowing that even on the three day holiday weekends that paperwork is generally still due on Monday at 9 AM. I fiddle-farted around until I decided that it just wasn't in the cards and elected to go to bed.

Monday morning rolls around and I still hadn't started my paperwork by the time 9 AM rolled by. On an ordinary Monday, I'd have received roughly three calls by 9:15 if my paperwork was still out. I knew that there was nobody in the office at that point. But I also know that my office is famous for inane policy, which usually translates into someone having to go into the office and check-in everyone's paperwork packets by 1 PM on those few Monday holidays... Nobody processes it or does anything else with it, it's just a stupid thing that they do which inconveniences both the worker that has to go in and do the check-in process, and the rest of us who just want a Monday without answering to "The Man." Well, again, I toyed with the idea of doing my paperwork, but 1PM rolls around, and I find myself consumed with a personal call and can't be bothered with paperwork. By 1:15, when no one had called my work phone, I figured the deadline was 3:00 PM which I found absurd considering the workday ends at 5 and knowing that no one will be processing it then anyway, so I elected to skip the paperwork, and if I got a phone call at 3:15, I just wasn't answering. At 4:30 there were still no calls, so I called Traci to find out what was up with the paperwork situation. She noted that during a meeting I'd missed they had made the announcement that paperwork wasn't due until 9:00 AM on Tuesday. So all day long, I felt like I had been sticking it to the man saying, "Dammit, I'll get to that paperwork when I'm damn well good and ready." Turns out I was merely slacking like everyone else already knew they were entitled to.

So after visiting with momma for a bit today, I finally sat down this evening and cranked it out, because I'll be damned if I have to get up a few minutes early to print that shit out before going to the weekly staff meeting. So it's done, and turned in early for a holiday weekend, and I didn't get to stick it to the man quite the way I initially thought I was going to, but I still enjoyed the day a little bit more by just feeling like I was.

So I've got that going for me, which is nice.

The dark place...

It should come as no shock to any of you loyal readers that I am currently not myself.

I am the Lizzle in the dark place. I'm swingin' for the fences to get back to the good stuff, but at the moment, the dark place is all I have. I have had rough patches before, and FAR rougher than this one, but the long and short of it is that I've got to change things up, or I'll seriously consider taking out a small business loan and set myself to the task of destroying my liver on a full time basis.

The dark place is an amusing little land where one is not restricted by the rules of friendliness and lovability. Rather, the dark place is dominated by hostility and the openness to be frank about the ugly and unpleasant reality of things. The dark place is the place for the residents of the world with hostile, confrontational personalities like that of Jack Nicholson in "As Good As It Gets" but without the OCD and the money. It's for people who have something genuine to be hostile about. It's a great place to be if I'm working on the "bitch school" curriculum! (And Brenda, if I could figure out how to make that a money-maker in the near future, I'd be all over it!) Basically I need to get laid, and I need to get the hell out of here, and if anyone wants to help me with either, I'm accepting offers on a rolling basis.

I've been looking for various avenues out of this crap hatchery, but so far nothing is panning out. And contrary to all good sense, I'm at the point where since I've got a bit of a safety net in the city where I plan to relocate, I am tempted to make the leap without something firmly in place to go to. Hell, I can work at Starbucks and have health insurance... Anything is better than this.

Embarrassment.

As we may or may not have clearly established here, I'm a compulsive cleaner... Usually.

There have been times when I've let things go. There have been times when I've let things go for too long. And with this recent bout of what I can only classify as mild depression, (stemming almost entirely from the shit storm of my life/profession,) I can now say that I have now on at least one occasion as an adult, I have officially let things go to the point where I have been embarrassed by my own squalor.

Yep, you read it here first.

I. actually. got. embarrassed.

My face was as red as a baboon's ass.

And all because I couldn't muster the will to get up and do a little basic housekeeping.

Now let me state quite clearly, and without doubt, that there are worse places out there. If I had kids, they wouldn't have been taken away over my messiness. (It's usually in those cases that I have to go in and instruct people on how to clean a house, or worse yet, put on some rubber gloves and go in and do it for them.) No, this was just my unwillingness to put away clean clothes, to put dirty clothes in the hamper, to put the dirty (but rinsed) dishes into the dishwasher, to take out the trash, to put things where they belong, to throw away the junk mail which tends to accumulate at an alarming rate, and to generally keep up with the messes that everyday life produces. And it wouldn't be so bad, but I've let it go for entirely too long because I've become lethargic and apathetic about the whole thing.

And I knew it was a mess. I KNEW IT. But it was clean the last time that the property manager sent anyone in to do maintenance, and those guys notwithstanding, I have a really tight control over who enters my domicile, and lately that guest list has been reduced to pathetic lil' ol' me.

So when I heard the knocking on my door this morning, I didn't panic right off. I get a fair amount of door-to-door solicitation here, so I thought it was someone wanting me to get cable, or delivery from the Schwann's man, or even the UPS guy delivering my latest Amazon book order.

I ignored the knocking and stayed prone in bed until I heard, "HELLO!? Maintenance! We're here to do the quarterly preventative spray for bugs."

Mentally: "SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!"

They do this every three months. I should have seen this coming. But then again, I've been too consumed by my own misery to care about much of anything lately, so of course, I neglected to mark the calendar.

Instantly I yelled, "UMMM, GIVE ME A MINUTE!" (The minute was used to haul my ass out of bed and throw on a bathrobe, not to even consider the mess which I knew was FARRRR too great to be contained before they lost all patience and barged in anyway.)

So I tried to contain the most egregious areas of concern. I knew they were spraying for bugs, even though we don't have bugs, so my first thought was to try to somewhat contain the garbage situation. (I tend to wait until the last minute, or until things start to smell funny to take out the trash... Whichever comes first.) I tidied up the garbage situation a little bit just to ensure that an instant eviction wasn't cataloged on my already besmirched personal history, and let them in. They seemed to take a little pity on me given that I was in my bathrobe and slippers, noting that they were sorry to have to get me out of bed for this.

I hung my head in shame, apologized for the extent of the mess, and let them go about their business. One guy stood at the doorway, trying not to ogle the mess inside, making idle chit chat about the recent rain we've been having. The other guy went and sprayed the porch doorway in the living room, the kitchen vents, the bathroom vent, and the window in the bedroom. Basically, he took the full tour of the destruction. And despite my apology, I'm more than a bit certain that they had a little conversation about the tornado that must've blown through my place to cause such a classic study in filth, squalor, and ickyness. (This especially troubles me because my usual fastidious cleaning regimen has ensured that this place has looked like I can afford a live-in housekeeper every other time they've come by, and today was a study in the polar opposite.) They were here for a grand total of less than two minutes, and the whole time I hung my head in shame and apologized for my grossness.

I was mortified.

I have since done some cleaning, despite the fact that the damage is done, but the shame of the whole thing really just kind of fits with the theme I've got going here, which in case you're particularly dense, (which I don't think is the case,) is that my whole life seems to be degrading into a giant steaming heap of shit... and I'm getting to the point where I'm embarrassed by it in front of strangers, and yet still can't muster the ability to genuinely care enough to fix it.

The ultimate D-bag....

So I recently went out for drinks with some of my fellow disgruntled co-workers. And one of them being a kind of passive therapist, it was really just a matter of time before a colossal douche became some kind of problem.

I suppose that my years of boozing in a real city have hardened me to an extent where I have absolutely no qualms about calling out someone on their doucheyness. It just kind of goes with the territory, and in the end it saves everyone a huge amount of time. Courtney the passive therapist has never lived in a major city, and thus has never had the opportunity to acquire this skill... But D-bags are everywhere, so there really is no excuse for her apparent lack of judgment on this momentous occasion.

I was up at the bar, demanding a little service, meanwhile a guy approached our table. Now, for those of you who have any kind of cynicism and hardness about you, and for those of you who have a finely honed douche-dar, let me tell you, this guy was the type to set off bells and raise red flags IMMEDIATELY.

He introduced himself as "David," a motivational speaker from Los Angeles... This profession in and of itself should start the cursory eye-rolling. He had thinning hair, and was sporting some khaki cargo shorts and a NY Giants superbowl hooded sweatshirt. Some of you are like me, and thinking, "Ok, I don't even have to see this guy, and the mental image is already sending up flares for d-bag all over!" When I returned to the table from chatting up the bartender and getting a drink up at the bar, he was standing next to my chair... And by "next to" I mean practically on top of. I proceeded to sit back down, and despite the fact that he had ample room at the end of the table, he continued to stand RIGHT THERE... RIGHT NEXT TO ME... SO CLOSE HE WAS IN MY BUBBLE. I volubly announced my displeasure to those not engaging him in conversation. "SO... I SUPPOSE I COULD MOVE TO THE END OF THE TABLE... SO THAT I ACTUALLY HAVE THE ELBOW ROOM TO LIFT MY BEER... SEEING AS THE PLACE ISN'T EXACTLY JAM-PACKED TONIGHT, OR EVER... BUT SINCE THIS IS MY TABLE, AND I WAS HERE FIRST, I DON'T THINK THAT SEEMS RIGHT, DO YOU, LADIES?" Douchey McDouche did not take the hint for another 10 minutes or so, when I finally lost my gourd and said flat out, "You're in my space. You need to move away from me... The farther the better."

He tried to be impressive. He came off as crass, (and not the good kind of crass like me). He talked about how much money he made, to the point of giving an actual dollar figure. He rambled about how great his life was, and how he whiled away the days in sunny California by walking with his dog on the beach while smoking a joint. He name-dropped the celebrities he claimed to know. (We were not impressed.) Here's a conversational sampling:

D-bag: "Well, my friend 'Charlie' ... I won't use his last name, because he's pretty famous..."
Liz: "Sheen?" (Don't read that as an interested Sheen. Read it as a 'This is obviously what you're shooting for, so maybe if we hustle you through this story and still show absolutely no interest so hopefully you'll go away")
D-bag: "Yes. Well, Charlie had a really fucked up childhood."
Liz: "I'm pretty sure that's common knowledge actually. And if you're talking to a table of social workers and therapists, at least to us, his adult life makes it pretty evident that his upbringing was totally fucked... Or we could just watch the E! True Hollywood Story."
Addison: "I'd have been more impressed if it was Charlie Gibson."
Liz: "Yeah, me too, or maybe Charlie Rose...but Charlie Gibson is based in New York."
D-bag: "Well, so anyway... BLAH BLAH (insert efforts at trying to sound impressive and interesting and failing miserably here.)"

So after a time which felt like FOREVER, but in actual time was probably about 15 minutes, the rest of us had lost ALL patience. Courtney however was doing as therapists do, and asking open ended questions. The rest of us exchanged glances and basically made it evident that this douche must be stopped, and he must be stopped now, and that Courtney wasn't helping... And she was officially voted out of all future nights at the bar. I remained engaged in conversation with the other girls at the table and pulled out my phone to play a little brick breaker and make it abundantly clear how over this guy the rest of us were.

So then the douche drew his metaphorical sword... Little did he know he was about to be hacked up into little pieces with it. He was talking about his motivational speaking career, and how everyone had insecurities... And then he reached over and pulled back Courtney's hair. He proceeded to say, "See, I'm betting that these ears are her insecurity, I mean she could fly home on these things!"

[Cut to flashing red alarm lights and sirens common to films about German U-Boats and failed missions... Like those U-Boats, this guy was going down. He was going down HARD. He was to be crushed by the pressure of the surroundings. He was to be consumed by all the little fishies, And we will only remember him as that douche now resting for all eternity in a watery grave at the bottom of the sea.]

Despite the fact that we were displeased with Courtney at this point, we were not going to let this insult of her physical features go. [Keep in mind that during this whole conversation, I continued to play brick breaker on my phone, because despite the insults, he was not worth my full undivided attention.]

Liz: "Umm, I don't know how things work in California, but let me inform you of the way things work here in ol' country bumpkin Indiana. I know it may come as a shock, but around here insulting women 20 minutes after you meet them is not any way to get into their pants."
D-Bag: "No, I mean we all have our insecurities... I mean look at her, (indicating Addison). She's insecure about her looks."
Liz: "No she's not. She's fuckin' hot. She's just dressed down because she already has a boyfriend, and because like the rest of us normal folk, she's been at work all day."
D-bag: "Well, she's cute, but she's not hot."
Liz: "Actually she is fuckin' hot. And I suggest you drop it, because that's not up for debate."
D-bag: "Well what about you?"
Liz: "Ohhh buddy... WHAT ABOUT ME?"
D-bag: "How about your insecurity?"
Liz: "OHHH PUH-LEEEZE tell me what my insecurity is... I'm actually dying to hear this one."
D-bag: "You're insecure about your weight." (The rest of the table was totally up in arms that this was said, but I waved them off, knowing that this guy was no match, and I relished the opportunity to unleash the wrath for a little bit.)
Liz: "Actually, no."
D-bag: "Well sure you are. I'm looking at you, and I can tell you're a really sweet girl, but you're insecure because you're not the 'Barbie' of the world."
Liz: "WRONG-O, and let me tell you why. [Enter seething, scorching tone.] You can see I'm a really sweet person? That's just the beginning of where you are wrong. I'M MEAN, I'm hateful and I'll tell you something else, I enjoy it intensely. And as for my weight and being the 'Barbie' I realize that by Hollywood standards, I'm more than a bit chunky. I also realize that every magazine cover produced in the last 20 years has been photoshopped to death. I also have the self esteem to know that I don't have to adhere to some prepackaged plastic ideals of what is beautiful. Furthermore, if I was insecure about my weight, I also know how to use a phone book to look up the address of a gym so that I can work my fat ass out on the treadmill if it was something that caused me any genuine concern. While we're on the subjects of insecurity, women, and weight, let me point out that 99% of American women have body issues, and rationally or not, most of them are genuinely unhappy about their weight. So that little 'This is what you're insecure about' schpiel is worthless because you couldn't have picked a more general concern of American women if you tried... I happen to be in the other 1%, but that's because I know myself very well, and know that for me, the weight, while present, is a non-issue, because as I've already stated, I could easily change it if I wanted to. And as for my friends, she's hot, her ears are fine, and you are not worth any more of our time. But if we're honing in on insecurities, let's look at yours."
Addison: "I'm guessing that receding hairline and thinning hair in general is what you're insecure about."
D-bag: "Well, no, I just grow it out a little bit and comb it and it doesn't bother me."
Addison: "Yeah, because we all know combovers are SOOOO SEXY."
Liz: "I'm actually going to go with the obvious one here. You're insecure about you microscopically tiny penis... I mean you have name-dropped every celebrity you think you know, and you mistakenly thought we'd find impressive. You have repeatedly tried to impress us with all the money you claim to be making, and just so you know, quite frankly, talk of money is crass in ANY social circle. And as for your motivational speaking career which you claim is so lucrative, clearly the public speaking course at your local community college or learning annex, or wherever did not go so far as to teach you that alienating your audience is not a wise route to go, because before long your audience WILL turn on you. NOW... Since we've established that your have a miserably tiny dick, and since, in general, we're talking about the pathetic area of anatomy known as your genitals, as a woman concerned for your testicular health, I suggest you turn around and walk away because if you don't, I'll rip your nuts off, stomp on them, and throw them in the river... It's only about 20 yards from here... My fat ass plays on the company softball team. I might be fat, but I've DEFINITELY got a good arm... So, stay or go, your choice."

Of course he left after that.

But just in case you were wondering, THIS is why I am awesome.

Welcome to my life...

We all know that my job makes me hate life. We also know that while it might be earning me some karma points, I totally counteract those bad boys by thinking really awful things in my head that I save up to spout to all my friends later at the bar. And furthermore, we know that social workers get paid SHIT. While we're on that topic, let's talk about my compensation... When I took this job, I was told, "Oh if gas gets anywhere near $3 a gallon (back then we were still in the $2.25-2.50 range) then the office usually throws a little money at us to make sure we can afford to make it out to see everyone." Well, let me tell you... Gas is nearly $4.00 a gallon, and has been WELL ABOVE $3.00 a gallon for some time now, and we haven't seen an extra dime. So I am forced to spend what VERY LITTLE extra money I WOULD have saved or used as disposable income to fill up my tank so that I can just get the bare minimum done and keep any kind of measly, paltry paycheck rolling in. This only enhances my bitterness about the whole thing.

In addition to all that, I recently got a phone call. "Hey, Liz! It's Mary Sunshine from We-Own-Your-Life bank and trust! Oh, someone forgot to tell you that your loan with us was not rolled into your consolidation of college loans, so basically, we've been silently fucking up your credit for a while now, and we've finally decided that we want to collect. That'll be $5,500. Oh, and we'll be needing that ... umm, roughly, NOW... Or we start taking it involuntarily from your paycheck."

This is just wonderful, because OBVIOUSLY I have $5,500 just lying around... I mean I just keep this shitty job for shits and giggles because I want to hate life and ruin my opinion of humankind and really, who wants to have kids someday? Not me! Because the little bastards are just asking for a beating with an electrical cord and a belt! Or better yet, I'll keep them in my house full of 14 cats and 6 dogs which never go outside and play dumb when I get a call from the school complaining that they are being sent home because they are covered in shit. Really, I mean, the only reason that $5,500 is not in my bank account because I stuff it in my mattress like an old miser who mistrusts federal banks. Oh wait... Nope, that's not right! I keep this goddamn job because I have to, even with it's shitty pay, it's something coming in the door, and since the job market is so spectacular at the moment, and I have SOOOOO many options, I MUST be keeping this job because it keeps me rolling in the dough, right? RIGHT?

Yeah.

This is my life.

Welcome to hell.

In related news, I woke up this morning, figured out that I am a low-level mental health professional and that when I turn my symptom knowledge around and look at myself lately, I probably have a diagnosable level of mild depression, but I can't do anything about it because despite that health insurance that gets paid for automatically with part of my paycheck, I can't afford to spend the money on a co-pay to go see a doctor, get a diagnosis, and then have to purchase medication if that is deemed necessary... At least not if I plan on eating. FUCK!

My life is just a steaming heap of shit salad... Who wants a taste? It's really delicious!