Seriously, folks?
As though the tights alone weren't an enormous enough crime against humanity?
Then to have my bootie (the same bootie that The Servant claims to need to squeeze because "it's too cute") spanked, be placed in a corner, then PHO-TO-GRAPHED while in an obvious state of torment?
Have I not suffered enough?
When is someone going to get me the number to CPS?
I am certain my caseworker will understand my need to:
1.) Empty the 80 or so pop cans out of the front closet from their containers, five minutes before the real estate agent shows up with potential sellers.
2.) Incessantly repeat, "mom, mom, mom, mom, mom", even while mom is saying, "what"?
3.) Throw items out the car window, then scream that I want them, forcing the Servant to turn around, even though we are late to Big A's game.
4.) Run from the Servant. Down a hill. At Big A's ball game. During which the Servant is supposed to be assisting with the coaching. Screaming the entire way, thereby guaranteeing all eyes are upon us, eliminating the otherwise certain spanking I'd have obtained.
5.) When caught, needing to slap the Servant in the face.
6.) Unraveling an entire roll of toilet paper, then trying to flush it down the toilet while the Servant is folding laundry.
7.) Opening nail polish (that, might I add, the Servant left out after painting my toenails), and dumping it on the floor.
8.) Stripping, then running out on the front porch naked. The Servant must learn not to leave the front door open. Ever. Even if it's just to clean up the front porch.
9.) Screaming when forced to be clothed again, kicking the Servant, throwing my milk, and tossing the bowl of cottage cheese across the floor.
Plus, the first person to provide me with the number will win a grand prize of a weekend with me.
Hello?
People?
Where are you?
Wait. I can be charming. I swear that I can.
Hello?
I have a man on my caseload who has, quite literally, been searching for work for almost two years. He's made mistakes in his past that have adversely altered his present and future, and he's a recovering alcoholic, who has been sober for over a year.
Around February, he became my client. At our first meeting, when I said to him that he seemed agitated, could I help in any way? He said to me something to the effect that he'd been looking for work for years, that I was probably one more person he'd see for a few months, and that he was tired. Tired of trying, tired of not drinking, tired of begging.
To which I said, "I'm sorry. I wish I could change those things for you, but I can't".
To which he replied, "No shit".
He had me at hello.
About two weeks ago, I wrangled my foot through a front door that appeared closed and landed an appointment with the right person. After he complimented me on having the nerve to schedule an appointment under, lets just call it "vague" pretenses, he listened as I pitched D's case.
"He just needs a break".
I refused to let my eyes waiver from his. Ultimately, he handed me a sample test and told me to come back in a week with D.
On Thursday, D and I entered the building. D was terrified; certain he'd fail, certain this was just one more rejection in the making. Certain this was one more item that he'd put in the "reasons I should drink" portion of the list that he kept in his head. Except he sailed through the test. And the interview.
When Mr. X asked him how the hours of 7:30-3:30 sounded, D hesitantly said they sounded great. Then Mr. X told him that his benefits would begin after 90 days, and that he'd see him the following week.
D and I left the building and headed to my car.
"You doing OK, D"? I asked.
"Yep."
I got in, jotted a couple of notes and then rolled down my window to let D know that the door was open and he could get in.
"I just need a couple of minutes," he choked out. I was jolted by the tears streaming down his face.
When he got into the car, he apologized for crying, told me how embarrassed he was, how I must be thinking he was crazy or drunk.
I assured him that I didn't think any of those things and congratulated him on his job.
"I can't believe you got me this job," he said.
I reminded him that I didn't get it for him; that he got it for himself, that he was a person truly deserving of a new start and chance, and that he finally got those things.
"I just can't figure it out", he said.
"Figure out what"?
"What the hell you're doing in this job. You should be doing something way different, not driving around people like me who completely fucked up their lives and are out begging for help."
"We're all doing that in some aspect, D, I think. It just isn't as apparent with some of us."
"Well, you changed my life today, you know. Completely changed it. And I feel bad for thinking the things that I thought about you when I met you." He choked back a sob. "I feel really, really bad."
I smiled, only imaging what he could have thought. Who could blame him? Who wouldn't get exhausted and jaded, being bounced around in a system where red tape often seems to dangle what you want and need the most just out of your reach, where there is an infinite number of hoops to jump through, each a little more challenging than the next.
"Don't feel bad, D. You were probably mostly right about me anyway."
He laughed and wiped his tears.
"You should drop me at the bus stop. You shouldn't be driving me home, where I live. It's not exactly the best area, if you know what I mean."
"I'll hold my own", I smirked a little, wondering what he'd have thought had he seen me the day I pounded on a clients door in a far worse area of town because she didn't show for our meeting (AGAIN). I'd gotten a hold of her mother (pesky little "emergency contact" part of her sample employment application) who'd told me she knew she was home, waiting for the cable guy to come and hook her cable up.
The look on her face when she swung the door open and saw me standing there was priceless. That would be a good MasterCard commercial. But I digress.
"I just don't want anything happening to you, you're like the one good thing in my life."
It was my turn to cry. "Thank you, D. That's probably the nicest thing anyone has said to me in quite a while."
"Well, look at us, two grown adults, sitting here crying in your car. What, are we in some fucking chick flick or something?"
And we both started laughing, each of our eyes peering out the windshield into the sun, each of us seeing, despite our very different views, for maybe just one second, the exact same thing.
Because it reminds me that happiness, in its truest form, lives within us, always. We just need to remember that it's there.
I have a client that has Asperger's Syndrome. One of the symptoms of it is being unaware of social boundaries or appropriate behavior; often individuals with it simply do not know how to function socially.
In addition to this, she also has the Church Lady Syndrome. While my other clients with Asperger's are genuinely sweet souls that are simply trying to learn the skills that will allow them to fit into the world of employment, she is actually very judgmental and stubborn. Needless to say, it's difficult to coach someone that is constantly reprimanding me.
Last week when I arrived for my meeting with her, she was already there waiting in the lobby. Our appointment was at 10:00, and I arrived at 9:50. I said hello to her and told her I'd be out to get her as soon as I settled in and got the computer up. I called her back at 9:57.
As soon as she walked in and sat down, she told me that I must have gone the wrong way in traffic and that if she'd taken that route, she'd have been, "later than you."
"Our appointment was for 10:00, R, and we actually started a few minutes early."
"Well I've been here since 9:30, and you weren't".
"Right. That's great that you're early, but that doesn't mean that I was late."
"But I was sitting here, waiting for you, and you must have taken the wrong way because you weren't here when I was."
"R, our appointment was at 10:00. If we were starting after that time, I would have been considered late, but the fact is that I was on time and you were simply early."
"Well, you should always be early. You should know that if you're supposed to be teaching people how to get a job."
I stopped myself then; the woman has lost so many jobs because of her inability to function within a work environment--I knew that arguing this point was mute.
At today's appointment, the first thing that she did when she sat down was say, "I see you have a sore." The snarky woman living in my head replied, "Really? Hadn't noticed."
Instead, I told her that yes, I did and explained that I had drank lemon water and that whenever I have citrus, I end up with cold sores. To which she replied:
"Those are herpes. You get it from sex."
At that point, I was leaning over into my briefcase, pulling out her file. Initially, I told myself, "She did.not.just.say.that." I sat up ramrod straight in my chair and looked pointedly at her.
"No, R, there are many different strains of herpes and what I have is not the one associated with sex. I've had them since I was a child."
"No, it's herpes and you get it from boys."
I tilted my head and bit my lip.
"I think I'm more familiar with my medical conditions than you, and actually, you saying that is completely inappropriate. That is not something that you'd say to a fellow employee or colleague."
"Well, whatever you say, I know how you got it." Her eyes challenged mine as I sat there for a few moments; a battle waging within my head. It was ugly.
In one scenario, I asked her if she knew how a person would get a black eye.
In another, she had a conversation with the person that referred her to me, talking about Jenn, her case worker with herpes that was always late.
In another, I just laid my head on the desk and cried.
I ended up telling her that discussing this issue was not in any way pertinent to what we were doing that day and that we needed to move along. She accepted this with a self-satisfied smile--certain that she'd just put her slutty placement specialist in her place.
When we ended our session and I handed her an appointment card, she visually flinched when she took it from me with her fingertips.
"Well, I guess you better take care of yourself for our appointment next week."
"Thanks R. I will."
I glanced up from my case notes and she was still standing there, looking at me. For one second I thought that maybe that was her way of caring, that she was concerned for me, that despite her delivery, she was just trying to help, and there I was, judging her, thinking very unkind thoughts about her.
"So that you won't be late anymore or get anymore herpes sores". (Not even "cold sores", but "herpes sores".)
Thanks for your messages; my apologies for not posting, many things to say, but having a hard time navigating the words. Little A is recovering from her surgery and pneumonia bout. Yes, she had pneumonia while she was operated on. What's that? You think that possibly since she had pulmonary/breathing issues she shouldn't have undergone surgery while her lungs had fluid in them? Huh. Bummer you weren't there to check them before she went under. Could have saved us a lot of worries and frustrations and hours on the phone with various hospital representatives. Serves me right for leaving that kind of technical stuff in the hands of medical professionals, I guess. Anyone have a spare copy of "Being a Doctor" for Dummies? Her surgeon needs one.
Seriously, folks?
