The Poop House Chronicles (Part Eleven): You don't even have to go in for it to ruin your day...

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have been remiss with regard to a few things entailed in my position as a social worker. It should come as no surprise to you that these things escaped my attention when we had more pressing matters to address, such as the deplorable living conditions of these people in modern day USA... Conditions which one state in particular seemed to be entirely too eager to approve of and allow. The propagation of the animals and bugs seemed pretty important to mention too... But you need to learn a little more about the background of the employer in order to really get a complete picture of the appalling bullshit that I had to put up with during my time shoveling shit in hell.

First off, I need to address the wage I earned for all this torment. I've told you that it was a paltry pittance... I wasn't lying. I've talked to friends about my income and they have always been beyond shocked at the measly sum which qualified as my paycheck. Since my company was sub-contracted by the state to do all THEIR leg work, the most reasonable thing to do would be to compare my wage to theirs. Since state case workers have government jobs, they get all the state benefits. They still get what we would call the lowly social worker wage, but they get health insurance and 3 weeks paid vacation from day one. They also get all kinds of state holidays off. Meanwhile, my company elected to keep us on the poverty line by paying us roughly $10,000 less annually than the state workers, (YES, you read that right, we're the ones doing all the hard work, and the get $10,000 LESS...) and they gave us NO paid holidays, unless of course you really WANT to work on Christmas day, (without receiving any bonus compensation,) 1 week of vacation earned only AFTER you've been there a year, and to be used over the course of your SECOND year on the job, (and if you bail out before the end of your second year, don't count on getting those unused vacation days in your final check, because that won't happen.) Let's also keep in mind that the state case workers only have to see their clients once a month. Meanwhile I'm fully expected to go into the poop house EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. $10,000 LESS for seeing the clients 25 times MORE... Figure that one out.

If you're not appalled by the wage described for the job you already know about, you should be.

Let's now address the working environment. This is a company which SPECIALIZES in providing therapeutic mental health services. And they constantly lecture to the workers that they should find outlets to deal with the job. (Of course, when they randomly drug test, and keep us on call 24-7, the most obvious outlets are out.) They then get upset when the workers hang around the office talking to each other, and they get REALLY upset when the workers are at the office talking to each other about anything work related, ("Because you never know who is walking around the office. And we don't want to offend any clients." ...More on that in a moment.) The logical solution to the problem would be for the company to provide an outlet for the workers, right? I mean it isn't like they don't have therapists available. But no, if we wanted to talk to anyone on a professional level about how to cope with the mental toll of the job, we were expected to PAY FULL PRICE to meet with anyone... And the mental health services are not covered in the crappy insurance plan that you have paid for out of your aforementioned tiny paycheck. (Unlike the state, who provides therapeutic services for their social workers free of charge.) *It should also be noted that the crappy insurance plan also doesn't cover birth control, despite the fact that if there was ever a job that would drive a person to want birth control in any and all forms, this is it!

That covers the compensation and benefits portion of our program, but there was an important point buried in there somewhere.

Oh, yes... "We don't want to offend any clients." That's a REALLY important point.

To normal people, like us, we find it pretty easy to stay on the right side of the law. We have stayed out of jail for the most part, (aside from perhaps a paddy wagon ride for some drunken/ disorderly conduct, or other misdemeanor shenanigans.) Those of you in my readership who are parents, have managed to maintain parental control and guardianship of your kiddos as far as I know. Congrats! To my knowledge you do not beat them, molest them, neglect them, or use drugs around them, (or while pregnant, ladies). At the office we were constantly told that the clients that we deal with are generally the bottom 1% of the barrel. So we're not offending 99% of the population by default, simply because they don't walk in the door, largely because, much like you, the upper 99% don't abuse their children. (I would include myself in that statement too, but I have no children.) But despite the fact that we are dealing with a tiny fraction of the population, and that this tiny fraction of the population is only in contact with us because the state has AT LEAST somewhat substantiated allegations, though in most cases SIGNIFICANT PROOF of abuse and/or neglect, we are expected to go out of our way to NOT OFFEND them.

Absorb that for a moment before we move on.

I mean I understand that it is important to establish a rapport with people that you have to have a working relationship. I understand that it's important to go through life doing your best not to offend people in general, (though sometimes it is an incredibly good time to be offensive). But we were fully expected to go above and beyond, often to the tune of defying natural biological responses our bodies volunteered. This means that if you are forced to sit in a room with a known child molester while he visits with his kids, despite the rage you can feel building within you, you are not allowed to beat him into unconsciousness and then kick him in tender places so that he won't be able to molest anymore. It also means that if you walk into a house so foul that your body spasms and you feel that there is no doubt that you will wretch and vomit, that you have to control that involuntary response, and you have to choke back anything that might come up... Because if they are willing to live there, you being so repulsed that you have to vomit would likely offend.

We were constantly told that we had to do any and everything possible to avoid offending this tiny insular group, even though the behavior that landed them on our roll call is highly offensive to anyone with even the most remote sense of decency. And as a bluntly honest person who is rather used to just telling it like it is, this is the task with which I struggled the most... Well, that and not blowing chunks every time I had to set foot on the premises at the poop house.

So when payday rolled around every two weeks, and I looked at that measly little figure that had been added to my checking account, my day was ruined without ever setting foot in poop house territory.

But when we left off, I was confronted with a clog in the poop house kitchen sink consisting solely of dead roaches. And although it's been more than a month since that last poop house post, let's really contemplate how bad a roach problem has to be that you have SO MANY roaches running around that your sink is SOLIDLY, INEXORABLY, and UNFATHOMABLY HOPELESSLY clogged with NOTHING BUT DEAD ROACHES. That's a little bit beyond a significant roach problem.

So when I contacted state case worker "Dave" he basically had the same reaction as you fine folks... But then brushed it off in a way that I was beginning to find all too familiar when it came to the state's manner of handling this case.

"...So he plunged the sink and nothing came up but dead roaches... and he said they've been working on plunging it for something like three days, and it's still totally clogged. They can't do dishes. It's revolting."

"Sick."

"Yes, that's one way of putting it."

"So other than that, how's the house looking?"

"Are you kidding me? Their sink is clogged with dead roaches, they can't do dishes because their sink is clogged with dead roaches, and you think there's going to be improvement elsewhere in the house? Have you gone mental?"

"Well, I thought I'd take a shot."

"Poor choice of timing on that shot."

"So, how does her room look?"

"It's every bit as sad and repulsively-smelling as the rest of the house... My concern is that since they are having plumbing issues that they will collectively bathe less than usual, and that's a rare enough occurrence as it is."

"Hmm... Yeah."

"Well, as helpful as this conversation is, that's really the most up to date information I've got for you... Oh and she doesn't have cancer, so they dodged that bullet."

"Oh, good."

"Have a nice day, Dave."

"You too!"

As I hung up, I marveled that this was his response, and that this lack of response and lack of action made considerably more than I did, and he only had to spend about a half an hour with them once a month versus my daily trek into hell for hours on end at times.

Clearly there is a gross inequity in there somewhere.

Without ever stepping foot on the grounds, my day was once again ruined.

But then again, it was a working day... I would still have to go there. I would still have to figure out how to fix this plumbing issue... Man, I must've missed this in the brochure.

Don't you dare...

I know that many of you have probably lost all hope that I will ever post something interesting ever again... Don't lose hope.

And don't for one second think that I've forgotten that we're still in the middle of the poop house saga.

I still have a poop house post that I've been working on. It gets a new paragraph every now and then and then I have to put it down for a little while. I find that the more time I have between me and the actual events the better, and I am less willing to really delve into the worst parts. Unfortunately, there are no "good" parts, and we are really getting into the meat and potatoes of the beating heart in the epic tale.

I did recently find myself thinking about another of my clients today, one of my juvenile mentoring kids... A tragic story too, but even though my service time with her and with the poop house family overlapped, I'm going to limit this to one horrific story at a time, because I no longer have the personal desire or wherewithal to rehash things all at once. And I don't want anyone confusing the details of one case with another.

Basically, even though I had to deal with it all at once, you're not being paid to deal with it, so I won't put that burden on you.

(It's also much easier to drag my tales out and wait for someone to offer me a lucrative book deal if I'm telling things one case at a time.)

So what I'm really saying here is for you not to lose hope. Don't think that I've forgotten about you. I haven't. You'll get the whole story in due time. (In truth, I spend much of the time when my computer is cooperative doing research and planning for my upcoming relocation.)

Can I just have a nap?

The weekend was not as relaxing as I'd have liked.

I knew that doing the ghetto-fix using tape or plastic sheeting of any kind simply wasn't going to cut it when it came to closing my car window. And I knew this because I work in an area that's kind of run down, and well, ghetto, so bitches would think nothing of just busting through that shit.

So I got up on Saturday and decided that I was going to try my hand at a real solution. So I did a little googling, and I searched for a screwdriver, and out I went. And then I turned into a total bull-dyke for a couple of hours and I fixed that shit myself.

Yes, that's right, I took the door panel off and fixed that window and put the door panel back on all by my lonesome.

I then decided that all I wanted to do was go in and watch some reruns of "House" and call it a night... but Ollie had other plans. He called me up and requested that I accompany him to the gay bar. And by "requested" I mean demanded, and by "gay bar" I mean tragic leather daddy dive bar.

"Ollie! I can't go to the gay bar! I've been WAAAAY too dykey today!"

"You're going."

"No, I need to save the money! I fixed my car myself. I fixed it myself instead of taking it to a mechanic because I need to save the money!"

"Well, see you need to celebrate that you fixed it yourself... BY GOING TO THE BAR!"

"I CAN'T! I can't spend the money!"

"You're going. I don't care if I have to drag your dykey ass out of the house in sweats, you're going to the bar."

"NOOOO! I have to go try on bridesmaid dresses in the morning... That will most likely be plenty painful without the added pains of a hangover!"

"Oh that's funny, I still don't care. You have one hour. Get dressed."

"NO I CAN'T GO!"

"You're going. We're done talking."

"OLLLLLIIIIIEEEEE!!! NOOOOO!"

"See you in an hour."

"I hate you."

So I went. And I laughed. And I drank. And I danced. And I laughed and drank on the dance floor. I admit that I had fun... But there was a price to pay, and it was exacted on me the folowing morning.

I woke up with a wretched hangover!

And while all the other bridesmaids were all giggly and chipper over lunch, I was sullen and salty as I clutched a large glass of water while praying that I could keep some of it down.

We went. We tried on dresses. We ended up with an interesting green number, and I nearly beat some bridal shop girls down with mannequin arms, because it is ridiculous to ask 6 bridesmaids to use ONE fitting room when they have an appointment, and you knew they were coming.

I then went with The Admiral for a little "hair of the dog."

In retrospect, I should've gone home for a nap.

I didn't get home until 11, I didn't get to bed until 1. Which is a problem when you've gotta be up at 6.

I just need a nap.

If it's broken, and it's going to be expensive to fix, it's probably mine...

Today is one of those days... Work was shitty. (Work being shitty is nothing new, but it was shittier than usual because half of my staff decided not to show up, and one of my supervisors decided to get pissed off because the other person who gets paid to do my job decided not to accomplish a damn thing for yet another shift... And then she decided not to show up for her shift to relieve me at the end of mine.) So there I was, getting berated for things that weren't my doing, and trying to do five people's work all by myself. When it came time for me to take my lunch, I tried my hand at improving my day. I went and found myself a pretty rad new shirt, and a Burt's Bees pomegranate infused lip balm... And in a handy twist of fate, and the one thing that went right for me today, I managed to get them both for a grand total of sixty-two cents. And with that one little thing going right, I threw off the balance of nature, and FAR more expensive things started going wrong.

As I left work, I noted that it was actually a few degrees above freezing today. So I rolled down a window not so much for the balmy temperature, as for a little fresh air. I noticed that the window I wanted to roll down wouldn't work... So I rolled down a different window. Upon getting home and giving it a little further inspection, I found that it would roll down when using a different switch, but then no matter which switch I used, it wouldn't roll up. Marvelous. So now one of my windows is down just enough to tempt someone into trying to reach in and steal what little I have if I should decide to go anywhere... And certainly it's down far enough to let in enough moisture from rain, sleet, and snow which will surely settle in and mold the back seat.

In an attempt to do a little homework online to see if there was any way that I could fix it myself, I got on my trusty computer, which seems to normally function on some level of busted-ness, but which had decided to actually work properly for the last couple of days. As I was searching for answers, I found nothing... Nothing but frustration as the computer too decided to stop properly functioning as well.

All for a lip balm and a rad shirt for 62 cents... If I'd known that's how it was all going to go down, and that the measly 16 dollars worth of positivity would throw things the natural balance so far off kilter, I'd have paid regular price for them, and keep my window and computer working.

But at least I didn't get arrested.

Happy Inauguration Day!

It's a big day for America!

It's Inauguration day! We've finally replaced that nincompoop (who I believe is actually quite shrewd and works hard at making us believe that he was an even bigger nincompoop, while slipping stuff under the radar of most folks who merely heard his terrible public speeches and wouldn't believe that he was intelligent enough to get one over on any of us)!

It's a big deal, no matter who you are, or who you voted for. I don't care if you're black, white, blue, red, green, pink, or every shade of the rainbow. I don't care if you voted for Ralph Nader, John McCain and his insipid running mate who will not be named, or any other pairing on the ticket in your state. No matter who you are, where you live, or what your political affiliations are, you have to admit that there is an electricity and an excitement in the air that hasn't been present in American politics for far too long.

People are finally getting interested in the people that are running the show. I am so glad to see that people are waking up and giving a damn about the things that will not only impact their lives, but the lives of their children... It's kind of an important thing to care about, don't you think?

An Officer, and The Admiral:

Just before I was scheduled to go in to work, I got a text message from my best friend, "The Admiral." Before I tell you what it said, I should note that we tend to call or message each other when we have bad days and compare notes. I have pretty crappy luck in life, so I usually win this contest, where it is usually better to be the loser... Today I got trumped.

The message, verbatim, read: "Today I got arrested. I've finally beat you."

Knowing that it was only early afternoon on a Monday, and that The Admiral is generally a law-abiding citizen, I knew that this was a big deal, and that there must be a story to go with it.

I called her, hoping that if she was able to access her phone to text me, that she still had access to it to talk to me and give me the full scoop on how the hell she managed to get arrested. I also wanted to know if I needed to figure out some means of bailing her out.

She answered, which reassured me that she was ok.

"What the hell! ARRESTED? HOW? WHY? And might I add, WOW!"

"Well, I went to get my taxes done. That was shitty because I found out I owe the government a few hundred dollars that I don't have. So I was upset. I was crying while driving back to the office and trying to figure out how I was going to pay it."

"Ok, that's shitty in and of itself. But that doesn't explain getting arrested... Did you black out and go on a kill-crazy shooting spree?"

"Well, remember that car accident I got into a few months ago?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I got a citation for following too closely, and for not having proof of insurance with me. They told me to submit proof of insurance when I paid the fine, or they would suspend my license... I paid the fine, but totally forgot about the insurance card."

"OH, shit!"

"Yeah, so while I was crying over my taxes and driving today, I apparently missed a sign that said no turn on red, and a cop was there to see it."

"DAMN."

"So of course I'm in hysterics over the tax thing and then getting pulled over on top of it... So when he got to the window, I was a mess."

"Jesus."

"So he runs my license and unbeknownst to me, it comes up as suspended. Since I was hysterical already, he probably thought I already knew about it and was upset because I knew I was in trouble for it, but I really didn't know! That was probably why he was such a dick!"

"OH MY GOD!"

"Yeah, so I was cuffed and put in the back of the car for driving on a suspended license. They printed me and everything... Though now if I'm ever murdered and something happens where I end up beheaded they can still identify me, because now they have my prints in the system!"

"Well, clearly that's the bright side in all of this!"

"Yeah, so they took away my license and impounded my car, and gave me a court date... It took him a while, but once the arresting officer figured out that my story was true, and that I really wasn't lying and trying to put anything past him, he stopped being such a dick, even saying that he wasn't going to require a bond on me because this was my first arrest, and that he could tell from my hysterics that this wasn't something I had done regularly... I think I even went so far as to reassure him 'NO, this isn't like me! I'm a good girl! REALLY! I'm a good girl!'"

"So they didn't put you in a cell or anything, right?"

"No... They booked me, but didn't put me in the slammer. I think they could tell that I was not the type to do well in jail."

"Wow... I just don't know what else to say. WOW!"

"Yeah, I finally scored one on you."

"Congratulations... You trumped me. Well done!"

"Oh, it was really just a matter of time... I mean I got engaged, got into law school, and got a huge scholarship all in one month's time... Things were just going far too well, OF COURSE it all had to go awry."

"WOW... I just don't know what else to say. That is an impressively bad day."

As much as I don't look at this as a win for me, because it is unfortunate and it happened to someone I care about, it is nice to know that it DIDN'T happen to me. I am by no means gloating over this, because I wholeheartedly sympathize when the shit hits the fan and just keeps heaping up, and it happened to my best friend, so that sucks. Can't we all just collectively catch a huge break?

Crazy Magnet...

As a person with my life experiences, and job history, I've come to the realization that I'm some kind of magnet for all kinds of crazy. And as a crazy magnet who is working in retail, I've also come to grips with the fact that it was almost inevitable that the crazy would come and find me at the store.

Today it happened.

I was in the last hour of my scheduled shift, fantasizing about going home and forgetting the crap I'd put up with all day. One of the people I regularly converse with, Patty, was headed to take a break and smoke a cigarette. Since things had warmed up to a balmy 10 degrees ABOVE zero, I decided I would accompany her outside so that I had someone to talk to while she got her nicotine fix.

No sooner than we got out there, the crazy found me.

A customer came out of the store, having freshly purchased a can of pringles potato chips. She popped the top, and ate a chip or two. She then said that she thought they tasted bad. Having the particular job I have at the store, I told her that if she wanted to return them, we'd help her out with that. Almost instantly, she said that she felt like she was going to sue because she felt like she was going to get food poisoning. Then she decided she was going to act like she was feeling ill. Instantly she was talking of calling her lawyer... And the crazy magnet now pulled me in and got me involved.

This crazy lady decided she wanted to make a real production of it... Simply returning the can of chips wasn't an option! Not when there was money to be made with frivolous litigation! So she demanded that we fil out an incident report. All over one measly bad pringle.

While we were filling out the paperwork, she called 911. Yes, you read that right, she had one stale potato chip and called an ambulance! AN AMBULANCE!!! I don't think it's necessary to inform you that the EMTs were PISSED when they found out why they'd been called. They told her to go home, drink some water, get some rest, and that they weren't going to treat her. Then they got back in their rig, slammed the doors, and peeled out of the parking lot to go to REAL emergencies.

I then spent an additional 40 minutes beyond the scheduled end of my shift filling out an incident witness statement instead of going home and forgetting about my shitty work day.

All for one bad pringle.

I tell you, the crazy just finds me like a heat seeking missile.

How about a knuckle sandwich?

Let's talk about some cold ass weather.

For those of you not currently residing in Canada, or the midwestern U.S, I feel the need to inform you that it has been cold here... But cold isn't the word for it. A more appropriate way to put it would be A TRAUMATIC AND BRUTAL ASSAULT ON THE SENSES.

When talking to my mother, I mentioned that despite living in Chicago for more than six years, (a place widely reputed for brutal winters,) I noted that I believed that despite all my memories of all the winters I spent there, I have absolutely no recollection of the existence of such cold, and that I must've mentally blocked it out like an abuse victim mentally blocks out traumatic memories.

Knowing that it was as cold as it was, (seriously, NOT counting wind chill, we're talking -18,) I was not thrilled about the prospect of getting out of bed to go to work my crappy retail job. But as I mentioned in my last post, I need the money so that I can get the hell out of Ohio as soon as possible, so I was thinking in more long-term parameters. So I got up, shivered, and said to myself that if the car didn't start on the first try that I would not feel guilty about calling off. And given the temperature, and the fact that my car is 10 years old, there was a distinct possibility that is was going to sputter for a second and tell me to bugger off. But in the interest of putting forth an honest effort, I went out, put the key in, and tried it. And wouldn't you know it, that thing turned over like nothing. So as it ran for a few minutes and warmed up a little, I ran back into the house, tried to shake off the cold, and went to layer up appropriately for work. And after bundling up, I went to work. My coworkers were not quite so diligent.

Three of the five people who were supposed to work under my watch called off, and the other two were late. The one person who my supervisors were supposed to send to help me out, was taken back to answer phones or something. Basically, I was doing it all myself as usual. I wasn't too upset though, because the extreme cold seemed to keep most rational people away, so things were relatively calm. I noted to a few of the people that I worked with that I genuinely questioned the intelligence and judgment of anyone coming to the store to get anything other than prescription medication, diapers, or a space heater.

Once things picked up and my late comers arrived, I was managing to juggle three or four things at one time, when a customer decided to get her nose all out of joint. She threw a fit when she had to stand behind one other person in line, and essentially demanded that I stop what I was doing to wait on her. I went ahead and opened up a register so that we could take her money and get her the hell out of there. As I bagged up her items and informed her of her total, one of the items in the bag shifted and was sticking partially out of the bag... At which point the bitch clearly lost her mind. She pitched a royal fit, calling my rush and my bagging skills "disgusting" and stating that she couldn't believe any of it! Seriously... Things shift once bagged. And if that makes me "disgusting" then I'm fine with it, as everyone who ever placed items in a bag only to have them shift is "disgusting" right there along with me. I, of course, wanted to punch her in the face, and as she sat bleeding on the floor, I'd have shouted at her, "What is disgusting is your attitude. Now get the hell out and don't come back until you've learned how to treat people." But seeing as I need my paycheck at the moment, I didn't.

I'm in hell.

Talking about the weather and my desire to assault people is really the best I can manage at the moment.

Going nowhere fast...

When I first came up with the idea to relocate to the South, the original concept resonated with me so much that when I talked to my cousin, it was "THE SOONER THE BETTER! GET ME OUTTA HERE!" But things have changed somewhat. After some money was spent on car repairs, and other unforeseen expenses, it has become pretty clear that I've got to get some finances in order before picking up the stakes and rollin' to the other side of the Mason-Dixon... Which is really tough to do on a crappy retail pay scale. So I'm still working on planning the logistics of the move, because it's really tough to find an apartment in a city 9 hours from where you currently live. Sure you can look at online listings, but the pictures that people post on the apartment search websites can deceive you into thinking a roach motel is a palatial estate. "We have in unit washer dryer hookups, hardwood floors throughout, OH, and you're conveniently next door to a very lovely crack house!" None of that shows up in the pictures that they put up. It's an interesting endeavor to be sure.

And when you're saving all that you can to afford the move, planning a trip to another time zone and another region of the country is an expensive notion that seems a little out of the question for the time being. So I'm cooling my heels and waiting for my bank balance to tell me it's ok to start thinking about this in concrete terms.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still eager to get this thing nailed down and over with, but without the help of some ridiculously wealthy benefactor, I'm going to be spending my days biting my tongue and busting my ass in the retail world... Unless any of you want to contribute to my cause! (In which case I will totally sing your praises as I hightail it outta here, and you know me, I'm not one to mooch off you guys, which should tell you how big this is to me!)

In other news, despite my better judgement, I went to a job interview here in Ohio the other day, thinking that if things worked out, I could at least spend a few weeks earning a check while not being ridiculed behind a cash register, or maybe put in for a transfer if I learned that was a possibility... Turns out it was another one of those bullshit "group interview" gigs where some dude yammers on for an hour while never actually saying anything, and then hooking a few of the dumber sons of bitches with talk of an unreasonably large paycheck, but not once ever mentioning what you needed to do to get it... My momma didn't raise a fool. My ass walked out while others remained seated around the table, and I again had the notion that some of them were folks planted to talk the idiots into sticking around and wasting their time and energy on some pyramid scheme or craptastic sales job where you spend all day pounding the pavement for someone else's benefit, or cold calling people for ten bucks an hour. Either way, not for me! I just thought you should know.

The poop house post has been delayed, but it is about half-way completed... I don't know when it'll actually be up, and I could give you a date, but I don't want to lie to you.

Much love, bitches!

When in doubt...

If ever you were wondering how best to spend your day when you are in Hell, Ohio, let me tell you!

Let me be your guide through this fantastic voyage!

Get up early. Curse your very existence. Curse harder at the state of your life. Curse harder still at George W. Bush. Then get yourself all dolled up and go to work. Do your job, even though it's crappy retail work that any trained monkey could do. And when your boss calls you in for a chat, (the same boss that you wanted to punch in the face the night before,) go ahead and chat with her. Listen to her bullshit "feedback" about your performance. Smile and nod, and hold your tongue, knowing that you're not going to be there very much longer, and that soon you'll be able to tell her to "shove it where the sun don't shine" and not worry about where your next meal is coming from because you don't need that bullshit paycheck from that bullshit job. Keep that smile going because you know that not only are you about 30 IQ points smarter than her, and much better able to work with people without offending them, you're awesome, and people love reading your blog... In fact, anyone with any real sense seems to love you, so just keep that in mind when listening to the nitwit who makes bank by talking down to you.

When you're done nodding at your boss while ignoring everything she says because you don't really give a rat's pink ass, go home. Hook up your analog-to-digital converter box, because we all know that your poor ass can't be wasting money on extravagant things like cable! And then marvel at the fact that you get more channels and that none of them are all fuzzy, snowy, and wobbly like the ones you've gotten used to!

When the novelty has worn off, take a little something to make your back feel better, because only a week ago you were having back spasms, and you've already been back at work for a 5 days, and have a short little nap. When you get up, cook yourself a lovely dinner of pasta and marinara sauce, and crack open a bottle of wine... Keep it open. You're going to be done with it by the time the night is through.

Go ahead and put some laundry in the washing machine so that the night isn't a total loss.

As the mellow buzz of the wine mixes with what little amount of the mild pain killer that's still in your system, laugh your ass off when you realize that one of your new channels is airing the 80's B-movie horror classic, "Killer Clowns From Outer Space." Watch in amazement.

Move the laundry from the washer to the dryer.

When the Killer Clowns have been defeated, channel surf for a little while, and marvel that Carson Daly still has a television show, and someone finds him relevant enough to keep paying him. That revelation should really keep you busy for a good long while.

Fold your laundry, match your socks, and put fresh sheets on the bed.

When you've thoroughly exhausted yourself trying to figure out that Carson Daly dilemma, have yourself a shower making sure to wash in your belly button and behind your ears (among other important places to wash!) Make sure you've washed your face, then brush your teeth, (don't forget to floss!) and head for bed.

That really is the long and short of it.

Congratulations, you've just survived a day in Hell, Ohio.

Is this as good as it gets, or what?

More poop house to come, but not today...

Today I thought I'd opt for a feces-free post.

Your basic lizzle update as it were.

I continue to speculate and plan for a move down south, but have nothing set just yet. In the meantime, my current crappy retail job continues to suck the life out of me. (And it endangers the life of one particular supervisor, as she tends to make demands of me which are ridiculously beyond the scope of my job description. She seems to think that I can get my normal full 8 hours worth of work done, and done well mind you, and that she can also heap on another 3-5 hours worth of OTHER PEOPLE'S work for me to do, all while expecting me to supervise my underlings effectively, and making sure that they are doing what they are supposed to do, despite the fact that they seem pretty friggin helpless when I'm busy busting my hump... It's a crappy retail job, and they don't pay me nearly enough to get all that other crapola done, so they can just kiss my fat ass! But back to that supervisor, when she makes her unreasonable demands, she acts like I'm just manicuring my nails on the job, instead of running my ass off, and then she makes smug remarks when I finish crap that she should be doing to "lead by example." That frosts my pumpkin! In point of fact, she's lucky that I was able to restrain myself from giving her a fat lip for her little remark tonight!)

I'm just venting because I'm in a salty mood, and I'm ready for my life to finally feel like it's getting somewhat on track...

Anyway, I just thought you might like a non-poop related update, and for those of you anxiously awaiting the next installment of the poop house variety, I have the weekend off, so I should be able to get something done up by Monday... So there.

Words of encouragement are appreciated, as I feel like I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel for morale these days.

An open letter to 2008...

Dear 2008,

First off, let's not beat around the bush, because 2008, you sucked. I'm glad that we're done forever, because you used me and abused me, and now as far as I'm concerned you can suck a big fat, scabies-ridden cock! Yeah, that's right! I said it!

The start of 2008 still had me doing that social work bullshit. That is bad enough. Early in 2008 I took a mini vacay to use up a few of my remaining paid vacation days to go and visit my family down south. The vacation was nice enough, and I bought new sheets while I was there. But part of my time down there was spent belly-aching to my aunt about my crappy job. Her take on things was that I'd pretty well already made up my mind to leave that crap, but that if I wasn't already thinking that, then it sure sounded like I was ready to bounce. I got home and went back to drinking, working, and plotting my escape.

In an effort to genuinely forget the hell of my life for a few days, I went to vegas. That trip didn't go off as planned, but it was still a spectacular time. That was really the highlight of 2008. Which isn't saying much because it was little more than an abberant long weekend where I was allowed to live on someone else's dime.

In late spring/early summer, Kirsten came to town to take her LSAT, and I really made the final decision to leave social work for whatever Ohio had to offer. In the meantime, the job continued to suck the life out of me though. I quit that shit for good in mid July, and had moved before the month was out. I then went to the family reunion which wasn't bad, but certainly lacked it's usual luster.

Shortly after my arrival in Ohio, the economy collapsed. And I shat myself metahporically. And of course my car decided to stop working and require $800 worth of work... $800 I REALLY didn't have.

Awesome.

In discussions regarding the economy all over the U.S. it was widely stated that Ohio was economically the worst state in the union. The job market was total bullshit, and despite sending out something like 700 resumes, I got a ridiculously low number of interviews, and got pissed off.

Then Hurricane Ike blew through. That bitch knocked out the power at my house for a week. During that week, Kirsten essentially took to living at Mike's house, so I spent a great deal of time alone with the cat.

When the power came back, the refrigerator did not. It took another 6 weeks before the landlord decided to fix that shit. (In case you were wondering, 7 weeks without the use of a refrigerator for ANY purpose SUCKS DONKEY BALLS.) And somewhere in there I had a shitty birthday, improved only slightly by the fact that I actually got to see Kirsten for the first time in weeks.

And after having only the cat for company for roughly 2 months, Kirsten came and got him and took him with her to Mike's house... My only friends in Ohio were now living elsewhere, and seldom heard from thereafter.

Right around the time that my bank balance hit absolute zero, and the refrigerator got fixed, my computer stopped working correctly, and I got a call telling me that I'd gotten a crappy retail job. GREAT!

So I spent most of the fall and early winter months cursing under my breath while fetching carts, change, and plastic bags for people, and wondering why I bothered getting a college degree, let alone a degree from a respectable university... I still do the cursing during my retail shifts, in case you were wondering. (And then I remind myself that it's not the poop house... but it still sucks.)

Then Kirsten got engaged, which didn't suck for me, but didn't really do much to improve things for me either. It did, however, solidify the fact that I have no reason to stay in Ohio, because the one reason I came to Ohio decided to fall in love and get married, and sledom be heard from ever again.

To round out my shitty 2008, I spent Christmas alone because I had to work on Christmas eve and the day after Christmas, effectively isolating me for the holiday season. I worked some of that shit, and then started having intensely painful back spasms. I then spent a few days on pain killers, and to really round out a shitty year properly, I had to have more work done on my car to the tune of $300. (I know, AWESOME, right?)

(Oh, and I got sued.)

So 2008 can suck it... In fact, 2008 DID suck it.

2008 sucked a golf ball through a garden hose.

Thank god we're done with that piece of shit year!

Happy New Year

Happy new year you crazy bitches!

May 2009 treat us all a little better than that piece of shit 2008.

I hope you all wake up hangover free and may all your resolutions be easy to keep!

I rounded out 2008 with a nasty round of back spasms, so I'll be taking pain killers and going to bed early.

Cheers!

Deep thoughts, not by Jack Handy...

I've been doing some thinking. Serious thinking. The kind of thinking that has gotten me into trouble in the past.

In case you care, I will be spending the holiday alone. Tragically, my crappy job (which at least provides a paycheck, and that alone is reason to be grateful,) requires me to work on Christmas eve, and the day after Christmas, so I will be unable to even go so far as to drive to my dad's house which is a mere 3 and a half hour drive away if there are no weather problems, but that is also not the case at present. But since we're talking about family and the holidays, I should mention that my mom is down south visiting her side of my family. Since she was there, one of my cousins called me up and very sweetly offered to fly me down for the holiday, but I sadly had to decline due to the aforementioned crappy job and crappy schedule.

While I was on the phone with the cousin, I couldn't help feeling the genuine love and sadness at the fact that I would miss the holiday with everyone. It might seem strange of me to say this, but the truth is that I've missed feeling so loved.

Don't get me wrong, I know that I am loved, and I know that I am missed, but the fact is that since my move to Ohio, I haven't seen my family, and aside from daily phone conversations with my mom, I haven't had any connection to my loved ones.

After the conversation with my cousin, I really got to thinking. Basically, I've been thinking that Ohio hasn't turned out as planned, that it shows little sign of turning around, (because economically it is still currently the worst state in the union,) and that for all intents and purposes, despite the fact that my best friend lives here, and that I've been living in her house on her good graces, I very seldom see her since she decided to go fall in love and get engaged, so although it was unforeseeable at the time, I've discovered that it was a mistake for me to move here.

As such, I've considered resuming my nomadic lifestyle, and picking up the stakes and hitting the road once more. Moving to the south was something I had originally considered when I decided to leave the social work gig. I decided to venture east to Ohio instead. Since things didn't pan out, I am looking at this as a move based on the premise of casting a legal Obama vote in a swing state before settling in a red state. Now that that's done, it's time to move on. Hopefully once I land in the south, I will acquire some gentility, and southern charm... And then use that charm to spread my liberal notions to the masses...

Seriously, I've got to stop moving, or start buying stock in the u-haul company!

An update not of the poop house variety...

Dear friends,

We're all friends here, right? Some of you know that I'm working. A few of you know that it's a crappy job that I have no intention of keeping in the long term, but hey, a girl's gotta eat in the meantime, and we all know that right about now the job market is about as pretty as what washed up in the poop house sink basin. So I have this crappy job, and in talking to some of the people who work with me, more than one has mentioned that they are interested in going into the field of social work. I laugh my usual bawdy laugh, and then try and talk them out of their possible job prospect using a few of the mildest bits of my job history. I think they think I'm just making all of this stuff up.

Trust me, I'm not.

I haven't even gotten into the real guts of the matter with any of them, and they seem horrified. They continually say things that imply that it couldn't really be that bad... IT IS THAT BAD!

The world does need social workers, don't get me wrong, but it won't be me, and it won't be anyone I have any influence over! You bitches need to believe that we're about to delve into the real belly of the beast here...

There is more to come.

It does get worse.

I am not making this up.

Don't be a social worker.

Don't encourage anyone you care about to be a social worker.

I'll work on the next poop house post over the weekend when I've got a couple of days off.

The Poop House Chronicles (Part Ten): Better or Worse?

The last time I'd seen the poop house family, (including all nineteen animals, and all of their piles of feces,) it had been a Saturday, I'd gone out and purchased toilet paper, bread and bug spray for them because they lacked the money and the wherewithal to go out and do it themselves, I noticed the most horrendously awful "heat rash" I'd ever seen, and I'd been informed that Millie might have lymphatic cancer. I didn't have a great weekend when all that went down.

I typed up my weekly paperwork, and turned it in. I turned it in because I didn't want to be tortured by thoughts of the poop house all weekend long while dreading doing my paperwork, so I just got it over with... I still had no such luck. All weekend long, I was tortured by the idea of this kid living in the conditions I'd seen. I was baffled at the state allowing it. I was troubled at the idea that the family had squandered their state check and Martha's paycheck on SOMETHING, and yet had no toilet paper or bread. Needless to say, I was bothered by the cancer issue. I was really having a rough time trying to put all of this on a back burner so that I could have an actual weekend and a bona fide personal life, (which was to become a running theme of my time as a social worker). Many of you might not get that last statement, but the thing is, when you're working for the people I was working for, you were constantly told that you needed to do everything in your power to not take your work home with you, and to leave all your work cares at the door of the last client's house... Of course, then they made us carry work cell phones so that we were on-call 24-7 for those clients, even on those weekends when we should've been more worried about what movie to go see, instead of, "How the hell am I going to find an open food bank to get these people through the rest of the weekend on a Saturday at 4:30 PM?" To boot, they made us turn in paperwork on the weekends in such a way that required everyone to make a special trip to the office at some point during their weekend to do work-related paper work which had to be done AFTER all of your client meetings for the week, and BEFORE the office officially opened on Monday.

Those things made it a little tougher not to think of clients on your own time.

Those things also made having a personal life a lot tougher.

So after my weekend was spent thinking about things I had no interest in thinking of, (namely poop, bugs, cancer, clients, and the like,) the weekend came to a close, and it was back to the daily grind of going to see the poop house family along with all of my other clients.

In the meantime, my weekend was sufficiently ruined by thoughts of the tediously disgusting work with the poop house family which persisted, even through the otherwise pleasant haze that a couple bottles of wine afforded me.

On the first day of my work week, I did all of my other work and saw all of my other clients... (because apparently the poop house wasn't amply sufficient in ruining my life). After I finished my typical daily run through other people's misery, I drove to the poop house. I continued my normal pattern of cursing and snarling involuntarily with my increasingly worsening facial tic. I changed into the poop shoes, and braced myself for the smell before opening the car door... The day was about to go down the drain... But as I was about to learn, that was all that was going down the drain.

I walked up to the disgusting door. I knocked and surveyed the ever-growing pile of garbage on the front porch as I waited. Mitch answered the door. He said that he was going to put the dogs in the bathroom before letting me in. He closed the door. As I waited, I continued to look at the huge pile of festering garbage on the front porch of this "home." I continued to wait... and wait.

Five minutes later, I figured that I'd caught busy Mitch by surprise, and that he was attempting to do a minimal amount of cleaning before letting me in. It was a safe assumption.

When the door finally opened, and Mitch let me in, I reeled and gagged at the odor, which seemed worse than usual. There was a new dimension to it. Usually it was merely the unbearable odor of cat urine, all kinds of animal poop, and hot garbage... There was definitely something new this day. There now seemed to be the added foulness of rotting food of some kind and swampy mildewy water.

"Mitch, I'm not going to beat around the bush, and I don't mean this to hurt your feelings, but I just have to tell you, it STINKS in here!"

"Oh... That's the sink."

"The sink? What's wrong with the sink?"

"It's clogged. That's why we haven't done the dishes."

"Ok, so that's the reason for the mountain of dirty dishes I'm seeing behind you there."

"Yeah, we haven't been able to do dishes since Friday."

"Why didn't you say something when I was here on Friday or Saturday?"

"Well, we thought we'd get a plunger and that everything would be fine."

"And did you get a plunger?"

"Yeah. but it didn't really help."

At this point Mitch led me around the landmines of dung that the animals had left behind, and toward the kitchen sink. As I looked at the mountain of dirty dishes precariously heaped on the counter, and I worked hard not to gag or vomit at the intensifying odor of rot and filth. I was also very VERY careful not to accidentally bump into anything, including the counter, which was crawling with a thick brownish coating of roaches. I couldn't control the internal desire to be out of this house as soon as possible. And I was about to get the jolt that would push me over the edge and make me want to run away screaming.

"Mitch, before we get to this, how is Millie? Any news on the possible cancer?"

"Oh, yeah, she's fine. The antibiotics are working to reduce the swelling, and the doctor called and said she's going to be fine in a few days."

"Oh, good! You all scared me with that cancer thing!"

"Yeah."

"So, what's going on with the sink that the plunger can't knock out?"

"Well... uhh... you see... "

Mitch then picked up the plunger. I was close enough to the sink to see that there was about a centimeter of standing water in the bottom of the sink which was semi-translucent.

"Mitch, have you guys tried something like liquid plumber?"

"Well, I don't know that that would do any good."

"Why not?"

Mitch nervously thumbed at the handle of the plunger. His downcast eyes let me know that there was more to this story that he wasn't telling me.

"Well, I don't think liquid plumber is designed to do anything for this particular kind of clog."

"What? WHY? What the heck kind of clog do you have that something like that won't do any good?"

Mitch then issued his reply, but instead of saying it with words, he SHOWED me.

Mitch stuck the plunger over the drain and pumped it a few times. He then pulled it away from the drain.

I was utterly HORRIFIED at what I saw.

(Keep in mind that this is a whole other dimension of HORRIFIED in what was already a horrific situation... And my additional horror might be an indication that you need to go and get a receptacle in which to contain your own violent reactions at what's ahead... I recommend something rather large and preferably concave.)

As the plunger cleared out of my view of the drain, I saw what had come up in the plunging process.

Considering that this sink was primarily used to wash the household dishes, I was expecting nothing more than chunks of soggy food because these people didn't strike me as the type to do a thorough job of scraping the plates before rinsing and washing dishes. But chunks of soggy, semi-disintegrated food was not what washed up in the plunging.

No.

In fact, I don't think there was a single particle of food in all of the drain back-wash... But then again I might have been distracted by everything else that did wash up.

As the drain back-wash settled enough for me to realize what had come up, and I visually processed the items in view, and mentally come up with a way to comprehend what exactly I was looking at, the reality of it took several seconds to sink into my psyche.

I, for one of the VERY FEW times in my grossly over-articulated life, was rendered totally and utterly SPEECHLESS.

If I hadn't been afraid of what might enter my mouth, I'd have stood there agape and agog with the horror of what I saw.

NOTHING ELSE had washed up, and by nothing else, I mean NOTHING else, other than about a thousand dead roach carcasses.

Yep.

[I will pause momentarily here so that you might vomit and afford yourself the natural reaction to such an image, and an appropriate amount of time to recover from this revelation... Keep in mind, that since I was standing there, in front of my "client" I was afforded no such opportunity to genuinely react, and no time to recover... I think that you'll find that with this pause I'm being quite generous. --All better? Me neither. But we must press on, because there are many more horrors ahead. Though I think now that you know this, you better understand why I took longer than previously forecast to get through creating this post for your reading pleasure, because understandably, I didn't want to revisit it... And I don't want to revisit anything else that is yet to come, but I will. For you. But please remain patient with me. I'm fragile.]

Oh, so now that you've had time to comprehend what I just told you, don't just cast it aside. REALLY LET IT SINK IT. PROCESS IT!

As I stood still horrified and unable to think or speak, my mind raced, but I was unable to grasp a hand-hold on any of them as they sped by.

I mean, picture yourself for a moment in this situation. You're already horrified at the state of the "home." You already struggle to breathe because the air is stifling, stagnant, acrid, and foul. Generally, the only thought that runs through your head in this situation is how to breathe as shallowly as possible, or how to get out of there as quickly as possible, or maybe even how to best ensure that you don't carry any contaminants from any of the critters out with you. If you have the mental capacity to get past all of this, all you can do is mentally detach and fantasize about an industrial sized bottle of hand sanitizer, a super-heated steam shower, and a job which doesn't require you to venture into the earthly portal to hell on a daily basis... Perhaps something as spectacular as a job with the fine folks at the Clorox companies... Somewhere where germs are endangered, and kids are clean, happy, and healthy. Your brain is already doing all it possibly can to prevent you from having a mental break which might cause you to either find give up on reality and figure that this lifestyle is acceptable, or go on a murderous rampage... Either way, the circuits are overloaded as it is. But to round out the picture, you have to think enough to talk to your clients about the unacceptability of this lifestyle. You have to think about ways to improve things. You have to formulate manageable tasks for these imbeciles. You have to supervise them as they work on these tasks so that you can ensure that they get done. All at the same time. All while trying to breathe and to keep from fainting or vomiting. It's a lot to process all at once.

And now you have to engage your clients. And you have to engage them about the thousand dead roaches which just washed up out of the kitchen sink drain. And you have to formulate a way that they can work around this problem until you can come up with a way for them to genuinely solve it... Which is also something you will have to do when considering that they are impoverished and can't afford toilet paper and bread, let alone a plumber for a proper fix... Not that any self respecting workman would ever cross the front lawn, let alone the threshold, or the poop minefield... Nope this is all on your shoulders. Congrats! And for all of this you get a pitiful paycheck, no retirement plan, no paid holidays, no health benefits unless you want those taken out of your measly paycheck, and no appreciation. Man, how did you luck into a job this awesome?

Can it possibly get any better than this?

If by better, you really mean A LOT WORSE, then yes.

Yes, it can... And it will.

I lied.

I planned to have the next edition of the PHC up over a week ago... It's no secret that I continue to suck.

I've had even less desire than usual to think about the poop house, and thus less desire than usual to compose the posts.

When you combine that with a best friend getting engaged, a celebratory hangover/ day spent assisting with wedding planning nonsense, and work nonsense, well, the last thing I want to do on my day off is to think about that hell hole.

I'll get to it as soon as I can.

I'm not going to apologize, because I'm entitled to take my sweet ass time here, because IT IS MY BLOG, DAMMIT! So just get over it, and go read dlisted or something. I mean really, you've got your nerve coming around here and thinking that you can place demands on me... Selfish assholes! It's not like you're paying my bills or anything! You really need to think about other people's needs for a change, especially when you're coming to their playground for a visit!



(As far as the italics go, I kid... but you knew that already!)

Back soon.

I'm going to be working on your latest poop house post tomorrow, and it will be up at some point in the day.

I'm a bad blogger. I know.

I could make excuses, but it's not worth it to anyone.

Sorry.

The Poop House Chronicles (Part Nine): A Thin Line Between Pity and Disgust

I'd been going about my business with the poop house family for a couple of weeks at this point. I know that it's difficult to comprehend that all of this disgusting, revolting information can occupy such a small amount of time, but I assure you that's the case.

I mentioned in the last post that during this time I suffered from nightmares about the poop house, and in general didn't sleep very well. I was about to see things which would add to those troubles.

Seasonally, at this point in the story, we're in roughly early- to mid-autumn. In the Midwest, that generally means that it can still get up in the upper 90's during the day, sudden showers can crop up out of nowhere, the humidity makes life unbearably sticky and gross, and it's possible to have frost on your car when you wake up in the morning. All of these factors combine with other things which in all are supposed to comprise the appeal of life in the Midwest. Personally, despite spending the overwhelming portion of my life here in the North American Midwest, I still don't see the appeal, and if it weren't for the ties of friends and family, I don't think I'd have anything to do with the place. I mean I like seasons and everything, but the Midwest finds new and interesting ways to make the best parts of the best seasons totally suck.

So one sweltering day, I had a mid afternoon cancellation. This meant that if I went to the poop house a little earlier than normal, I could be done for the day. Normally people would look at finishing a work day early as a good thing... Since the poop house stood in my way, I was not one of the normal people. I knew that in order to finish early I would have to ruin my day early by going to the poop house, and that by going to the poop house earlier than they typically expected me, I would be surprising them. (And not in a good way.) In all likelihood, they would not have lifted a finger to work on anything because they weren't expecting me until later.

I went to my office. I chatted up one of my friends who knew my caseload while I was there.

"So the 'Waltons' [name changed] canceled on me."

"Oh! That's great! There's no coverage today. You want to go get a drink? I finish at 6:30... We can go then."

"No can do."

"Why not? You just said that you had a cancellation. Last time I checked, that means that you finish early since there's no coverage on the board."

"Well, you see, I always go to see the poop house family last."

"Oh."

"And since they're not expecting me until after that appointment is supposed to be over, if I show up now, that place is going to be extra gross."

"Yeah, extra gross poop house means you'll probably have to stay there longer than usual. And that equals extra-strength heebie jeebies, and an extra long shower, it's almost more trouble than it's worth."

"If you ask me, that whole case is more trouble than it's worth. They should just put the kid into a permanent placement and be done with it. The parents are NEVER going to change."

"Well, if you're out of the shower by 8 give me a call and we'll go get that drink."

"Will do."

I chatted up a few other people around the office, putting off the inevitable, giving them time to get something done, even though I knew it wouldn't happen.

Sometime between 5:30 and 6, I ran out of people to talk to, and procrastinate with, and so I went begrudgingly on my way to the poop house. And on the ten minute drive from my office to that festering sore of a residence, I shuddered at what I was likely to encounter, and I cursed to myself, and my upper lip curled in an unpleasant snarl that was becoming a victim in the form of an entirely involuntary facial tic.

I pulled up to the curb. I tried to control the snarl, and the cursing. I sat in my driver's seat, gripped the steering wheel in my fists and violently shook back and forth. I then reached back into the bag in the back seat and changed into the poop shoes while muttering incoherently something to the tune of, "...Can't believe this... fucking disgusting... nobody is paid enough for this... fuck... if one of those fucking little dogs touches me... son of a bitch... living in poop... this is hell... I'm in hell... need to advocate human sterilization... Fuck."

I walked up to the front porch and noticed that some of Mitch's alley-way finds hadn't made it to the trash, but to the top of the porch heap of garbage. Not quite the same thing. I knocked and the dogs began to shrilly bark. Mitch opened the door a crack, looked surprised, and told me that he was going to put the dogs away in the bathroom before I came in.

"Fine. Do it."

A few minutes later Mitch emerged, coming out onto the porch rather than letting me into the house.

"You're early."

"Yeah, I am. But your goals were the same no matter what time I was going to come and check on the progress."

"Well, we're not exactly done yet."

"Would you be done by the time I normally show up? Think carefully about how you answer."

"Probably."

"Probably? When did you get started working on the stuff we talked about?"

"Well... uhh... you see..."

"Let me guess, you haven't even started."

"Well, uhh, kinda."

"Kinda? You 'kinda' started to clean up the mess? You 'kinda' picked up poop? You 'kinda' did the dishes? You 'kinda' did laundry? You 'kinda' got rid of all the stuff you picked up in the alley? You 'kinda' gave Millie a bath? Stop me when I hit something that you 'kinda' did."

"Well, we didn't do any of that."

"None of it?"

"Well, we were going to do it before you got here, but you're early."

"That wasn't a wise answer Mitch. You just told me that at the very most the goals I've set for you would take up less than two hours of your day, because you haven't started, and I'm roughly two hours early. That's not good for two reasons. One, you're not working at a full time job, so you have AT LEAST EIGHT workable hours per day, and yet you're not managing to work here for even two. And I'm betting it's not the commute that's stopping you. And two, if you're not working to accomplish the goals I set until you know I'm coming over soon, that means that you're not spending the right amount of time on them, which means that you're not cleaning appropriately, and that means I'm going to have to look harder at what is getting done, and how it's getting done... There are more things wrong, but those are the biggies!"

"Well, uhh..."

"Mitch, why haven't you started? Why is there poop on the floor? Why are there dishes in the sink?"

"Well, that's the thing. We're out of toilet paper. I don't have any way to pick up the poop."

"Well, usually when I run out of something necessary like that, the solution is to go and get some."

"Well, Martha has the money, and she's at work... And we don't even have bus fare to get out to see her."

"You have no money and no toilet paper in the house?"

"Nope."

"Ok, that's something that you need to take up with your wife. It's absolutely unacceptable that if you have money between the two of you that at least some of it should be left here, because taking care of kids costs money, and you're going to run into expenses."

"Yeah... I guess you're right."

"I know I'm right. So what I'm going to suggest is that for right now, you pick up some of those old newspaper ads and use that to pick up the poop, because it can't stay here on the floor."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that."

"Ok, so let's get going on that."

As Mitch went through the house using newspapers which should have been thrown out months or years ago to pick up poop deposited days or hours ago, little Millie came bounding out of her room to see what was going on. She was filthy, but that took a backseat to the first thing that I noticed, which was the angry red rash which covered the vast majority of her exposed arms and legs. I then noticed the swelling in her face. I'd like to say that the facial swelling was noticed first, but due to her normal level of pudginess, it took me a moment to realize that this was well above and beyond her normal look.

"Mitch! What's going on here?"

"What?"

"Mitch, Millie is covered in a rash, and her face is REALLY swollen. Don't tell me that you didn't notice!"

"Oh, that. Well, Martha took her to the doctor, and he said that it's a heat rash and swollen tonsils. She's got medicine in the fridge."

At this point Millie began screaming that she wanted more of the medicine. Mitch responded by screaming back that she couldn't have any more until later.

Millie became enraged at being told no once again. She ran over to the disgusting rusty box that they called a fridge, and tried to pull it open. Mitch blocked her and prevented her from opening the fridge. This only pushed her further over the edge. At which point she turned suddenly and felt that her best course of action was to sucker-punch me in the stomach.

The wind knocked out of me, and aghast at that response, I could not speak. I inhaled sharply trying to recover my breath... My body's natural response to a need for air was met with a considerable problem when the only air to inhale was so foul and nauseating as that which I was being forced to inhale. My eyes began to water, and the chunks rose in my throat. Meanwhile Mitch grabbed Millie by the upper arm and pulled her into her bedroom. He closed the door behind her after casting her solidly into the room in a forceful but not abusive way. Millie audibly screamed and cried in her room for the next several minutes but did not reappear.

Once I was able to regain my breath, choke back the vomit, and blink away the natural eye-watering response to the foulness, I said something briefly to Mitch about his response to the outburst. The exact words escape me.

As Millie continued her temper tantrum in her bedroom, I looked around and noticed that the roach problem was significantly worse than it had been lately.

"Mitch, I noticed that your roach problem seems to be getting worse, what's going on there?"

"Well, they usually get worse this time of year, but they are pretty bad right now."

"And did you guys go out and get any spray like I suggested?"

"No. We couldn't afford it."

"Ok. When does Martha get paid again?"

"Not until next Friday."

"Ok... Well, I really think we need to get something going before then... Hmmm."

"Well we don't have the money for toilet paper right now, so we REALLY don't have the money for bug spray."

At roughly this point in the conversation little Millie came out of her bedroom calm as ever, as if the previous incident involving her fists and my stomach had never happened. I admit that part of me was pissed off at getting physically assaulted by a five year old, but pity took over when I looked at her swollen face and the horrid rash covering the vast majority of her body. Kids lash out when they don't feel good in any way... It happens.

Little Millie then asked Mitch for a sandwich.

"I can't make you a sandwich."

"Why not?"

"We don't have any bread, and I don't have any money to go get some."

My heart broke.

"Mitch, you don't have any toilet paper, bug spray, or bread, and you don't have any money whatsoever?"

"Nope. Martha might have a few bucks, but we've got to make that last until her next check."

I thought for a moment. I knew very well the idea of not having the money to go and get necessities. I knew what it meant to have to make it work with what you've got, but as someone who typically planned for things like toilet paper, I knew that hunger often took a back seat to being able to wipe your ass. But in the time I'd known that feeling, I never had a child I had to support. It wasn't fair that she couldn't have a sandwich and had no toilet paper. It wasn't fair that she had to live in this roach motel because her parents were spending their money on god only knows what instead of getting bug spray.

"I tell you what, Mitch, get started on your chore list. I will be back in a little bit and I want to see some progress."

I let myself out as Millie pleaded with Mitch for a sandwich and he repeatedly told her that he couldn't make it happen.

I went to a local market and picked up toilet paper, bread, and bug spray. I paid for it out of my own pocket, and never submitted the receipt to the office for reimbursement, because it was within my power to do $7.64 worth of charity that day. I then drove back to the poop house and walked up to the door. I knocked and Mitch and Millie came out to the porch.

"Mitch, I went and I got you enough bread and toilet paper to get you through, and a can of bug spray because you need it."

Millie looked at me as though I were the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, and the Tooth Fairy all rolled into one.

"You bought us bread?"

"Yeah, I did... You said you wanted a sandwich, didn't you?"

"I DID!"

"Well, now you can have one."

"But you got us toilet paper, too?"

"Yes."

"WOW!"

Mitch thanked me, and I told him that he could thank me more effectively by going back into that house and actually spending some time on the chores he knew he needed to do.

I turned and left, driving to see Martha at work.

I walked into the pizza shop, and shook my head in disbelief at the fact that they let her work there. I then addressed her as she stood at the front register.

"Hey, Martha."

"Hey."

"I was just over at your house. I saw Millie and talked to Mitch. He said that you took her to the doctor for that rash and the swelling in her face."

"Yeah, it's a bad heat rash, and the doctor had to run some tests to figure out what is going on with her face."

"What do you mean?"

"He thinks she might have lymphatic cancer or something... Said he'd know more in a couple of days."

"Oh my god!"

"Yeah, my aunt died of lymphatic cancer... so there's a chance."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"It could be nothing, that's why he gave us the antibiotics."

"Ok, well, be sure to keep me updated about that! But the other thing I wanted to discuss with you is the fact that you're the one working and you're leaving Millie with Mitch, and he's got no money to buy anything as needs arise."

"I don't have any money either. All I've got are the bus tokens I got from Dave."

"And you don't get paid until Friday?"

"Nope... We're due to go to the food bank though, so we should be fine."

"Ok, well, if that doesn't go as planned, let me know, or have Mitch let me know... We'll figure something out."

"Ok."

I couldn't believe it. We had enough horrible shit to deal with... Adding cancer to the mix was not anticipated.

I left Martha's pizza shop, and called Dave to let him know what was going on medically. He showed a marginal amount of concern, but didn't seem to get too worked up. I, on the other hand, was plenty worked up for the both of us. I just had to wait to see how it all played out.

In case you care:

I know a lot of you are just coming around for poop house posts, but in the interest of keeping you informed, I will let you know a couple of things:

1. First off, my computer is still being a huge bitch. This usually means that I am relegated to typing up the poop house posts on the meager time that it allots to me before randomly deciding that it needs a rest and spontaneously shuts down... It makes things difficult.
2. Secondly, my time is now occupied by a crappy retail job that I took in the interest of paying bills until I can find real work... Who knows how long that will be. This means that I'm spending a minimum of 30-40 hours a week doing swing shifts, and not sitting on my computer being awesome/unemployed. This also adds to the delay.
3. And finally, in a move totally out of character for me, I have gotten sick. I currently have a really nasty cold, and in addition to not being able to breathe out of my nose, all I want to do is sleep. I might have to take the Admiral's cure, (known as "whiskey-ing it out of the system,") which is to drink enough alcohol to kill any and all germies coursing through my bloodstream. I have a feeling I might be able to use this method effectively.

Furthermore, I have this weekend off, but I hope to be spending it tailgating at the Ohio State- Michigan game... This will be a prime opportunity to continue the whiskey-it-out method if I haven't already recovered somewhat.

That's all for now. More poop house to come, and trust me when I tell you that things will get REALLY REALLY NASTY within the next few posts.

The Poop House Chronicles (Part Eight): Let's get ready to RRRRRRUUUUUUMMMMMBBBBLLLLLLLLLE!!!!

(My computer is still acting up, so I apologize for the delay on this and some future posts.)

The poop house haunted me, both when I was awake, and in my nightmares.

When awake, I fitfully itched and scratched, compulsively cleaned things I already knew to be clean, compulsively showered multiple times per day, did laundry to a point which would be considered highly wasteful by energy and water conservation standards, and generally dreaded my next foray into hell.

When asleep, I was tormented by the nightmarish number of cats, dogs, and cockroaches. Sleeping sucked because it was seldom restful sleep, and usually I was at the mercy of all the living creatures in the poop house, which generally meant that I dreamed of having dogs biting at my ankles, cats hissing at me from shelves, and cockroaches surrounding me no matter where I turned... And of course the smell. Yes, even in my nightmares the smell was thick and utterly rank.

Normally, Lizzle is pretty affable most of the time. Hell 95% of the time Lizzle is downright likable to most people with any intelligence. (Admittedly Lizzle is less likable to those who posess IQ scores on the lower end of the spectrum, because she derives intense pleasure from mocking many of them with words that are too big for them to comprehend... And despite the lack of intelligence and vocabulary, they somehow manage to pick up on tones of derision, ridicule and mockery.) Lizzle really tries not to make fun of the dummies, but so many of them just beg for it! And like any good realist, Lizzle admits that there are always bad days here and there for anyone, and she's not going to pretend that she's the least bit likable when things are bad, or when she has cramps. But once the poop house came along, Lizzle started losing sleep. Sleep-deprived Lizzle is a different beast altogether. Sleep-deprived Lizzle tries to be nice, but generally operates on a really short fuse, and once that fuse is lit, it's spent for the day, until a little bit of fitful sleep essentially hits the reset button. Lizzle knows that parenthood robs a person of countless hours of sleep, but those hours are balanced out by the mellowing effects of affection for the offspring, rendering most parents pretty tolerable, if not likable. But the sleep-deprived Lizzle has no children. No pets. No nothing. Instead sleep-deprived Lizzle had the poop house, and needless to say, there was NO affection WHATSOEVER for the poop house. In point of fact, Lizzle had nothing but contempt, loathing, and hate for the poop house... And all involved with putting her there and keeping her there.

Lizzle is tired of referring to herself in the third person.

I admit that I was a little coarse and probably difficult to be around at this point in time. Things were not looking as though they were going to improve any time soon though, so my real friends tried to offset my general aire of unpleasantness by asking me to recount my daily interaction with the poop house family. I don't know if they thought it would be cathartic for me to just vent and that I would be more pleasant once it was out, or if they just had a really morbid curiosity about everything, or if they figured that since they had to suffer my presence, they might as well get the latest chapter of the horror story, but whatever the hypothesis, whatever the reasoning, no matter how many people I told, I didn't feel any better about it. Never. I did get to a point where I was able to laugh about the sheer foulness and and misery of my daily visits to the poop house, but only as a means of mental self preservation... I never genuinely felt any better about it, and to this day it still intensely bothers me. The laughter and joking merely made others more comfortable around me.

So I went back the next day.

Again as I sat at the curb, changing into poop shoes, I cursed under my breath. I then cursed at normal volume because the subtle cursing didn't make me feel any better. I turned my gaze to the poop house, noticing a grocery cart in the front yard that hadn't been there before. Knowing that there wasn't anything more than a run-down bodega, much less a full-on grocery store, within a mile of this shit hole, I had the distinct feeling that the cart had not been idly dumped by someone traveling to their own home, but rather that it had some significance to play in this visit. As it turned out, I was right.

As I choked on the foul air standing and knocking on the front door, I listened to the dogs barking. Mitch took his sweet time doing whatever he was doing inside, I assume he was getting up from his late afternoon nap in front of the television... Because he certainly wasn't cleaning. He opened the inside door, and as he reached to open the screen door, the five small dogs barked and rampaged down at his feet, and spilled out onto the porch the instant the door was open. Contrary to the instincts that you and I have, they were not out to make a grand escape. Rather, they snarled at my feet and one of them chomped at my pant leg. While I'm not one to advocate violence against animals, I am also not one to tolerate being bitten, especially when the offending animal has been living in filth and has god only knows what growing in and on it. I fought the urge to kick the little bastard off my ankle and merely shook him off, and suggested that Mitch store the animals somewhere other than little Millie's room for the duration of my visit. This would become a part of our daily routine.

As he collected the little beasts one by one and shoved them back in the bathroom, I pulled up my pant leg to make sure that my skin was still 100% intact. Once the process of containing the dogs was complete, he opened the screen door and let me in. Instantly I knew two things: 1) Mitch had DEFINITELY not been cleaning prior to my arrival, and 2) I knew I was right about that shopping cart. As I looked around, I saw enough dung on the floor that if I hadn't known better would have made me think that I hadn't been there just one day earlier. I looked around without moving more than three steps beyond the front door and could count more than a dozen piles of crap.

"Mitch! WHAT ON EARTH HAVE YOU BEEN DOING?"

"What?"

"Mitch, I'm still within spitting distance of your front door and I can see at least a dozen piles of poop on the floor... That's your number one job on the chore list, so what on earth have you been doing? Because picking up poop ain't it."

"Well, uh, you see..."

That aforementioned short fuse had been lit. I was now a ticking time bomb.

"And now that I'm looking around to see more than just poop... What is all this stuff?"

"Well, uh, you see, that's what I was doing."

"I don't follow."

"Well, I was out earlier walking down the alley, and I saw this computer, and then I saw this box of stuff, and then I saw this..."

He carried on, indicating all of the treasures he'd found on his trek down the alley. My inner rage was about to boil over, and so I focused my efforts on controlling that, rather than listening to the whole list.

"MITCH. STOP. You're telling me that despite the fact that you have a total of nineteen animals to clean up after, and a house that the state has told you is too cluttered and filthy, that you went down the alley and picked up OTHER PEOPLE'S GARBAGE and brought it into your house?"

"Well, yeah," he said in a manner so frank and simply that it astonished me.

"Mitch, if I've been coming every day and telling you things that you need to throw out or clean up, what part of picking up other people's trash and putting it in your house did you think I'd be ok with?"

"Well, it's not trash, you see..."

"Mitch, I'm going to cut you off, because here's the deal, if your house is already too full of stuff you can't manage to keep clean and organized, and the state has to call to make sure that someone like me is coming by every day to make sure that things aren't getting any worse, and in fact, work with you on making it BETTER, what made you think that taking things that other people had THROWN AWAY would make this better?"

"Well, this isn't trash... It's a computer."

"Mitch, I'm not trying to insult you, but you don't live in the ritziest neighborhood in town... When someone around here throws something away, there's usually something pretty significant wrong with it that they can't fix. Nobody is going to leave a WORKING computer out in the alley."

"But I can fix it."

"Really? Do you have the expertise to know exactly what is wrong with it, or the parts to repair it?"

"Well, no. But I've got these other ones over here too... and I'll fix them and sell them."

"You see, this is why I have a problem with this... You're currently pointing at five other computers which you've amassed by some means or another, and I am assuming that none of them work either. If they did, you'd either be using them, or you'd have sold them as functional. You've told me that you don't have the expertise or the parts to fix them, and since I know you guys are going to food banks to get food, I think it's a safe bet that you're not in a position to go out buying computer parts, diagnostic equipment, or even pay for a class to learn how to figure out what's wrong with them. Stop me if I'm wrong, at any point, but if the state is telling you to clean up your house and get rid of all the clutter, which by the way would include broken computers that you don't know how to fix, doesn't adding a grocery cart load of other people's trash seem a little counter productive?"

"Well..."

"You don't have to say it... We both know the right answer to that one. And I tell you what, I'll even tell you that you can hang on to that broken computer, but in trade, you've got to take TWO grocery cart loads of other stuff that is broken, or trash, out to the alley. You can't keep adding other people's trash, when you've got too much of your own."

Mitch looked at me utterly crestfallen. I was making him choose. And for him, choosing certain things among his house full of garbage was like Sophie's choice.

"Mitch, I'm not trying to be mean here, but if that's what it takes to show you I'm serious, I'll be meaner than a rattlesnake. I want you guys to get this house cleaned up. I want to be able to tell your case worker that you're making progress. I want to be out of here just as badly as you want me to be out of here. And I know that you don't want me in here every day, telling you your business, and if you get this place cleaned up I don't have to be, but that's the problem; that's why you can't keep heaping new stuff onto the pile here."

"Oh."

"That's also why you can't be going out to look for stuff when you've got a house full of animals to clean up after. Because it's pretty obvious that while you were out and about, the animals have gone to town, and it shows that cleaning up after them wasn't your first priority."

"Well, I was going to, but then I sat down to take a break and then you showed up."

"Mitch, if I haven't even made it this far into the house and I can count twelve piles of poop without even looking around for the ones which might be a little bit hidden, or around a corner, I'm betting that you didn't just sit down and 'poof' I was here to catch you taking a break. I am in full support of taking breaks, but that means you've got to be doing something productive in order to take that break... And I've already told you I wasn't born yesterday, so I'm betting that you guys haven't cleaned a thing since I left yesterday, have you?"

"Well, we did some laundry."

"You started that while I was here... So that doesn't count."

"Umm..."

"Come on... I'll give you the points for honesty."

"You're right."

"I figured. The question is, what are YOU going to do about it? I've already told you that I am not going to do it for you. I will tell you what you need to do, and I'll supervise, and I'll help you with resources, but my job it to make sure that Millie is safe, and that Dave knows she's safe... And I can't say that I'm able to give Dave a very good report today."

"I'll clean up the poop."

"And?"

"I'll go through the pile of stuff."

"And?"

"And I'll take some of it out back to the alley."

"And?"

"And I'll do the dishes and the other stuff on the chore list."

"AND?"

"And what? What else is there?"

"Mitch, there's a whole lot that isn't on that daily chore list that could be done... But in the interest of setting goals I think you can achieve, I will settle for what you've already promised me you'll do, AND NOT going out and adding to your problems with other people's trash."

"Oh. Ok."

I did a pretty standard look around the house, made sure that the poop got picked up, (in the end there were more than two dozen piles of poop found and cleaned up,) made sure that he knew what he had to get done by my next visit, and left.

As I changed out of the poop shoes, soaked my hands in sanitizer, and raced home, I called case worker Dave to make sure that he knew about the massive amounts of poop, and the additional garbage in the house... There was NO WAY IN HELL that this was going to come back on me. I passed the responsibility to him by making sure he was aware of what he had Millie living in.

NO. WAY. IN. HELL.

Time to separate the wheat from the chaff!

If you can make it through watching this video without audibly giggling at least once, then you have no business here... If you cackled like a freak, then you're right where you belong! (Possibly not safe for conservative work environments.)

Thanks for coming out!

Dear Readers,

I know for a fact that you are an intelligent group. As intelligent people, I'm sure that you all voted yesterday. No matter the candidate you selected on your personal ballot, nor the candidate selected by any of your given states, I want to thank you for going out and participating in what was a long, arduous, historic, (no matter who won the presidency, it was going to be pretty historic,) and intensely electrifying election. Participation in the democratic election process is just one of the many things that makes this country so great! And whether you supported him or not, it's now time to unify behind President Elect Obama and get to work on turning around this runaway train.

Whether you hail from a red state, or a blue state, or a county which went the opposite color of your state as a whole, know that your vote mattered, and be proud to live in a nation where you were allowed the opportunity to be a part of the process.

I am going to show my political bias by stating that I am proud that all three of the states I've called home since coming of legal voting age all went blue, and it makes me intensely happy. It also makes me happy that we have a President Elect who is eloquent, calm under pressure, and knows how to pronounce the word "nuclear." I am also happy that Sarah Palin is headed back to the snowier regions of the non-contiguous USA, and return home to her pregnant teenage daughter, and her moose hunting. Thanks, Alaska, but you can keep her!

With all of this said, I thank everyone for their civic duty, and hope that the next four years bring peace, prosperity, and a renewed sense of pride to you all.

Way to be awesome, America!!

Faith, Hope, Peace, and Love,

Lizzle

The Poop House Chronicles (Part Seven): Time to meet Millie

When last we left off, I was in the poop house, struggling to breathe and counting up the grand total of 14 cats and 5 dogs.

Like you, I was appalled by the number.

The mad rush of felines to the food bowl was astonishing, and not in a good way... (In case you hadn't figured it out already, nothing that happens in the poop house ever happens in a good way!) But with the sudden burst of activity in the home, the human residents all decided to come and and marvel at the fracas.

Martha had incited the feline riot. Mitch came staggering in next, and I'm only half convinced he wasn't after a little bit of that kibble for himself. It wouldn't have surprised me to find out that anyone in the house occasionally dined on the off-brand meow mix currently being served. Shortly after Mitch's arrival in the kitchen of feline horrors, a tornado blew in... And that tornado was named Millie.

So many of you want Millie to be a shiny, pristine little cutie in a frilly pink dress and braided pigtails... So many of you will be disappointed.

Millie wasn't really able to help the fact that she was a spitting image of her corpulent maternal genetic heritage. She was of average height for a five year old, pudgy - bordering on the brink of being a childhood obesity statistic. She had pale skin, which made it all the more obvious that she was not one to go and play outside, though the degree of paleness was difficult to determine due to the amount of filth all over her body... (The fact is that if you or I at age five had had a face one one hundredth as dirty as this poor soul, our mothers would have instantly pulled us over by the upper arm, licked a tissue and taken to bathing us using the universal solvent that is "mom spit." But then again, our mothers didn't raise us in poop houses, and wouldn't have the worries of encountering animal feces or contracting toxoplasmosis from the endeavor.) She was barefoot and wearing tattered second hand clothes. Looking at her little legs, it was blatantly obvious that she was covered in flea bites. And as she whirled around the kitchen it was hard not to notice that the bottoms of her feet were quite literally black and caked with god only knows what. Little Millie had stringy, greasy blonde hair not unlike her mother's, which obviously hadn't been shampooed in a week or more. And as she bent down to pick up one of the cats during the middle of its meal, her mother hollered "No!" and it instantly became clear that this was not a word that the child was accustomed to obeying, and very possibly not accustomed to hearing. That single word set the storm in motion.

Instantly little Millie began screaming at her mother. And since we're dealing with such high caliber parents here, Martha's obvious reaction was to scream right back at her.

Given that this was very early on in my interaction with this family, I elected to observe, rather than instantly correct the poor choice of parenting method... I mean I'm not "Super Nanny" here, my job is to work with them on the house first, effective parenting methods could be managed later... And some parenting skills would come in later, but not until the home cleaning, animal over-population, and hygiene issues were well on their way to being resolved.

Millie continued to scream at Martha, Martha continued to scream at Millie. Mitch must've felt that he was being left out because then he got in on the screaming too! It was roughly this point where I had to yell over everyone.

"OK EVERYBODY! LISTEN UP! This screaming match isn't solving anything. Millie, your mom told you not to pick up the cat while it's eating. She doesn't want you to get scratched or bitten. So please leave the cat on the floor until it is done, or go find something else to play with. Martha, Mitch, you're not saying anything that can't be said in a normal tone of voice, so let's take it down a notch or two."

They all stood stunned in silence. Clearly this concept was foreign to them. Not yelling? Who in the world came up with these shennanigans? What tomfoolery is this not yelling business?

The only sounds came from the cats fighting and chewing down at our feet, and perhaps the light skittering noises of all the cockroaches all around, both visibly and beyond the surfaces of the walls.

Millie, momentarily silent, stood shifting uncomfortably and began picking at the crotch of her soiled little outfit. Once situated down below, she was once again attracted by the sounds of the cats, pouncing on the first cat she could find who was not actively chowing down on the kibble. She picked it up, baby-talked to it for a few brief seconds, held it awkwardly enough that the cat was noticeably uncomfortable, and then chucked it in the general direction of the ground when it began to hiss and scratch at her.

Millie and Mitch pounced on this opportunity for a "told you so" moment. I again decided not to correct the parenting and instead refocus attention on the more serious issues.

"Millie, can you do me a favor and go play in your room? We'll be in to see you in a minute."

"I DON'T WANNA PLAY IN MY ROOM! I WANNA WATCH TV!"

"That's fine. You can go watch TV for a few minutes, I've got to talk to your parents for a bit."

Millie gave me a little attitude and sashayed out of the kitchen.

"Ok, I know that this is just my first time meeting Millie, but based on what I'm seeing, I'm not encouraged guys."

"Whaddya mean?"

"Well, clearly we need to start addressing some hygiene issues. When was the last time she bathed?"

"This morning."

"Ok, see, I don't believe that. I might have been born at night, but it wasn't LAST NIGHT. So let's try again with the real answer."

"I don't know... Mitch, do you know?"

"Uhhhh...."

"See, that was more along the answer I was expecting, and the fact is that if you can't remember the last time it happened, then you're overdue."

"(silence from the peanut gallery)"

"Furthermore, I noticed that she was grabbing at her crotch, so that means that we need to talk to her about the importance of wearing clean underwear every day, and it's pretty likely that we also need to talk to her about cleaning herself up after using the toilet."

"How do you want us to do that?"

"Well, since there's a history of molestation by her biological father, I'm going to suggest that you handle that Martha... Start out by talking to her about it, and then stay on top of it by making sure that she's actually changing her underwear every day by assisting her, or by checking the laundry. As for the bathing, I'm telling you that she needs a bath or shower AT LEAST every other day, and since it's summer and it's hot out, it really ought to be happening every day... and if need be, you should probably spend some time making sure that she is washing thoroughly."

"Oh."

"Now let's get this poop picked up off the floor and get started on those dishes so that I can get out of here."

Martha took to the sink to begin work on the dishes. Mitch tracked down a roll of toilet paper and began scooping up piles of excrement. When we got to Millie's room, I noticed an unusual amount of dung on the floor again. I again admonished them for keeping the animals in her room. I then decided that a shower was more important to me than anything else I would accomplish during this visit.

The shower was scaldingly satisfying.

(The next visit gets a little hostile!)

It is very nice to meet you all!

For those of you curious as to how I spent my Saturday, I'll tell you.

I went and performed my civic duty as a responsible member of the citizenry. Many of you might wonder what else I did with my Saturday... (That's provided that you were interested in my Saturday to begin with, but since you're still reading, I will keep telling you.) I did very little else with my Saturday. Why? Because as a responsible member of the citizenry in a swing state, I spent FIVE HOURS waiting in line to cast my vote.

Yep, FIVE HOURS.

Five hours of standing in line, getting to know the other civic-minded Ohioans who happened to join the line roughly the same time that I did. Making corny election-related jokes which were still infinitely more amusing than Jay Leno, making corny "waiting in line" jokes, being generally amusing, and doing cross words that I had the foresight to bring along in my purse, you know, just me being awesome in a 5 hour line.

Hold up that beautiful little hand of yours with all those gorgeous digits fully extended. Now imagine that each of those fingers represents one hour of your Saturday afternoon. And if you can't get enough of this example, then take those five hourly digits and break them down into the sixty sub-parts to represent all those minutes... You can keep going, breaking it down to smaller and smaller parts for as long as you want to keep gazing at your hand, but I don't want to bore the rest of the readers, so I'm going to stop with the current breakdown.

So yeah, when I got home, my poor little feet were really perturbed, so I sent them off for a pleasant soak.

Those of you who know me well, or at least pay some degree of attention here probably already know how I voted. I'm not going to state it directly because this is not one of those political blogs, but I'll just say that if the next four years are anything like the last eight, don't blame me.

If any of you have any curiosity remaining about the voting, I will say this... If the line at the polling place today is in any way indicative of how Ohio is going to turn out, I have a feeling that we're going to swing blue this year.

Since I'm already here, I will get to work on completing the next installment of the poop house chronicles... I think it should be up tomorrow, Monday at the latest.

Please don't hate me...

Your next installment of PHC has been delayed.

I was doing some final edits and the whole thing deleted, and of course with my luck it left no trace anywhere. Not even an original unedited copy is anywhere to be found. It was as long as the other ones, so when it deleted in the final editing stages, you can imagine how pissed I was. This goes hand in hand with the fact that my computer is currently acting wonkier than Paris Hilton's eye... And we all know that that's pretty friggin wonky!

I am hopeful that this, along with other problems, will be resolved soon.

And I'll get on retyping things, and as long as the computer cooperates for an indeterminate amount of time, I should have something up for you at some point this weekend, though I know from my stat counter that most of you have real lives on the weekends and don't sit around reading this mess, because really who wants to ruin a perfectly good weekend with this drivel?

A little harmless fun...

I've gotten ahead on typing up the poop house chronicles, so there should still be posts, even if I get a little bit lazy... There are no assurances that I won't get a lot lazy though. But I'll do my best to stay on top of it.

The fact is that lately Lizzle has had a rough time of it. This week brought an emotional breakdown that I hadn't anticipated. And I'm not an overly emotional girl by any stretch of the imagination, so a noteworthy emotional breakdown is BIG headline news.

But as it happens, Big Daddy Spankbottom, of Las Vegas fame, is coming to town this weekend for some homecoming / tailgating action. So I plan on getting shit-faced drunk, being ridiculous, making questionable decisions, and generally having a good time, strictly because it's been too long since I've been able to genuinely cut loose, and after the last couple of weeks, I friggin deserve it!

There should be pictures... You know, just to break up the monotony of the PHC posts!

Have a good one kids!