Done

Spending the evening cleaning the apartment is a pretty mild (no, nonexistent) way to celebrate being done with the semester. This time last year, I was two pitchers into the evening and on my way to Delilah's with classmates, some of whom have now become good friends, and some of whom, well, I drank too much to remember who those others were.

It's different this time, because I still have to go to the police department tomorrow and instead of the usual slow, lazy Friday, I have four families to see. I don't get a full month off to laze about and forget entirely about the internship. Simply taking away the classes relieves some of the workload, but not a lot.

This semester, I slacked off hardcore. I didn't love school last year, but this year it has been torturous. I'm scared to death about what kind of job I'm going to be able to score come May, but I'd give anything to be there now and not have to suffer through 146 more days. You know, not that I have a minutes, nay, seconds, countdown going in my cell phone countdown function.

I know so many people who would be professional students if they could afford it. I'm not one of those. I'd rather apprentice. There's a certain social work-y sensibility that I'm getting through being in school, one that I definitely didn't pick up as a case worker in Alabama (far from it), but overall, I find most of the classes pretty worthless and the internships as valuable as gold.

I suppose those experiences are what will make me a good social worker, but generally, I'm pretty annoyed at spending so much money (and I even went to the cheap school!) and putting us in debt for years to come. I think if I had gotten a bachelor's in social work, I might never get my masters. But sadly, they usually don't employ social workers with a background in English literature. Plus, I don't think I would have made a very good social worker when I was 21. As much as I gnash my teeth at starting over again in my 30s, at least I have the maturity now. I just would like the money to match that.

I guess I'll start looking for jobs in the next month or so, which freaks me out, but I have a plan that, while not securing Tim and me any health benefits, will at least give me some experience. I'm going to work registry at psych emergency rooms, doing hospital intakes. I suspect they'll hire any fool with a degree to do registry work, so it's a good way to get some experience and my foot in the door. Having at least a teeny plan makes me feel better, not quite as terrified.

So, on to Christmas.

Alone

There is a certain asceticism to being single, and being alone. My meals are simpler, because I usually only go all out when I have someone else to cook for. There isn't bike gear strewn across the dining room table, or other people's paperwork. Just mine. I can even push the bed against the wall since I am the only person getting into it.

It's everything that I loved about living by myself. Quietude.

But this time, instead, none of that matters. I feel like there is a vise across my chest, and it is only barely working to keep everything inside. It's hard to focus on what I need to do for myself, like set up temp work and health insurance, and remember to give Fergus his daily pills, or even on conversations while I'm in the middle of them.

I find myself wanting to interrupt the conversation and make casual acquaintances intimate friends with my confidences: "I don't know how I'm going to survive without Tim." It's been one night of tossing and turning, sleeplessness because his presence next to me in bed is my sleep aid; and 153 more to go.

Today a customer service rep called for him. "My husband doesn't live here currently," I said, wondering how uncomfortable I was making the caller, with my insinuation that something was up, and slightly enjoying it. But then I felt guilty, so I told him about Tim's summer into fall job, that he wouldn't be home until October, and then I realized I was telling too much, but I couldn't stop, because all I wanted to do was talk about Tim. I notice this happens when I miss him; I try to insert him into every conversation I have--I suppose so then it's like he's with me again.

Anything, really, to relieve this punch in the chest I feel every time I breathe.

Putting it out there

Tim thinks I need to be specific about what I want out of a job, and put it out into the universe to let it simmer.

For the first time ever, I can be specific. I finally know exactly what I want to do. I guess this is why I went to grad school, but in some ways, knowing exactly what I want to do also blows. If I had a wider view, it would probably be easier to find a job. I could look at the job listings, usually around 25-50 each time I look, and actually find something that looks at least appealing enough to apply for. I wouldn't be crippled with anxiety, wondering what I can possibly do that won't make me feel like I'm wasting my time, or finding something that will at least position me well for what I can do eventually. Now that I know what I love, anything less than that really will feel like a waste of time.

So here goes, universe. Work your magic for me.

I want a job at a community mental health agency, doing family therapy with adolescents. I want the job to allow for some group work, perhaps with self-esteem or social skills training, maybe anger management. Maybe music therapy! Maybe dance! Anything creative that will spark the kids' interest. I want the job to have the room to grow into restorative justice and peace-making circles. I want to be able to some day write a grant for the purchase of a bunch of drums so that we can have drum circles.

I want the hours to be flexible, so I can start late and work late, and still maintain my shelter job. I want it to be maybe Tuesday through Saturday, so I can take my Sundays and Mondays to be with Tim.

And lastly, I'd like it to be within biking distance on warm days. I don't want a drainingly long commute. I won't mind doing home visits, I won't mind if I have to drive clients around in my car. I just don't want to have to drive for an hour or more in bad traffice to get to work.

That's it. This is exactly what I want. This is my job description of heaven.

Edited to say: I thought of something else. I'd love to also be able to run a movie series or book club for teens that had some therapeutic value to it. I am thinking of this as I proofread a library journal, and it seems like the young adult librarians are always doing cool things that I think could somehow be woven into a social worker's job, too.

I always thought I'd become a librarian, after spending years in the cult of ALA. If there was some way to combine the two--no, three, including the editing bits of my life that I miss--that would be the perfect job.

I suppose what it all really boils down to is that I want a job where I can be creative. I never realized what an asset that could be to therapy, and it's exciting to see that I can include that in my work. But I need a place that values it, and lets me run with all my wild ideas.

Quiet Riot

Sometimes the only music to clean to has to be heavy metal. Since I haven't had a tape player in about 5 years, that's about as long as it's been since I've been able to listen to my favorite: Quiet Riot's Metal Health album. So I downloaded it from online today, and now I'm jamming out to "Love's a Bitch" as I straighten the living room. Perfect!

That reminds me how I found Quiet Riot, anyway. When I was taking guitar lessons from Old Town School of Folk Music, one of the jam sessions included "Cum on Feel the Noize," and I loved it. Of course, learning it in that context made me think it was a folky song. So I was pretty surprised to request it at kareoke some time later and discover it rocked harder than I ever imagined.

Working with families

In my interview last week for an internship at a youth-services agency, they asked me what I liked about teenagers, and what the challenges working with them were. I love teenagers because they're living through possibly the most formative time of life. They can still have the innocence of children (wellll, not so much the ones I work with), and some of the wisdom of adulthood (ditto). And I remember what a glorious yet angst-filled time that was for me. Plus, some of them respond really well to my sarcasm, and others to my sympathetic side, so we just really get along.

What I don't like about working with them is their parents. So many of the kids are in the hospital and diagnosed with bipolar disorder or intermittant explosive disorder because their families are just pretty fucked up. So rarely do I actually believe their mental health diagnosis is actually a chemical inbalance and not the response to a difficult, traumatic upbringing.

But today I led a family session that went so well. The mom was upset but still willing to support her son. First I asked her how she wanted to see his behavior change when he got home, and she listed a bunch of things. We talked about the supportive services he was already receiving. Then I brought him into the room and asked him to tell his mom what he had been working on while in the hospital. He said his anger issues and coping skills; and I asked him to elaborate and give examples about what skills he's learning. Then I gave both of them a copy of a poem called The Meanest Mother in the World. (It's pretty cheesy but it's a good way for kids to reflect on why their parents do things like impose curfews, make them do chores, etc.) I had him read it outloud and then explain what he thought it meant, and how it applied to his mom.

Then I brought out a art project the son had done during a therapy group about suicide. It was a funeral program. He read it to his mom and explained how he created it and why he included the things he did. It was a really amazing program. I said, "What do you think it would be like for your mom, if this were a real program for your funeral?" which generated good discussion.

I wasn't planning on the next part, but the conversation led up to it really well, so I asked the two of them to do a reverse role play of mom and son. The mother really got into it, acting like her son wanting to go out and hang with friends. I think the son was irritated by the exercise, but he responded as his mom would, and afterwards, was able to articulate some good thoughts about the activity.

Then we made up a contract of behaviors, what the son would work on when he went home, what the mom would do, and some things I'd be able to help them with. The son was able to come up with his own ideas of how his behavior should change that mirrored what his mom said, and she was agreeable to the things he asked her to do, like being there for him when he needed to talk and to not blame him for things before asking first if he caused them.

Finally, I gave each of them a saying about attitude and had the son read it. Then it was over, and the family hugged. One of the nurses asked me a little later what had happened, because evidently the kid came back to group with a really bad attitude. So maybe he didn't get as much out of it as it seemed, but I don't really care. The mom was pleased with how it went, and she's very supportive of him, and will allow him to come back into the home, so that's the important part. And it made me feel really good about my (slowly but surely) improving skills.

Franziaaa . . . the wine in the box

For what seemed like every single day in Physics class senior year of high school, David Rowe sat behind me and sang this jingle. I remembered it the other day when I was thinking about how I needed to start drinking red wine on a regular basis, but how it probably defeated the health purposes to drink a whole bottle in one sitting because I don't want it to go bad. So really the perfect item for me would boxed wine that wouldn't turn to vinegar if I only had one glass a night.

Oh, if only it was good wine!

I thought about the red wine because I need to start eating heart-healthy. Because I just found out my cholesterol level is currently on red alert, danger zone.

Though it could primarily be from genetics, I do eat what could technically be defined as an ass-ton of cheese. It is, after all, my number one favorite food. And as much as it kills me to cut down on the cheese, and despite the genetic predisposition, I just can't wrap my head around going on medication when I'm only 30.

Like I blogged about earlier, my resolution is to maintain calm in the face of stress, so my first thought was, "(damn it) I'm going to have to start an exercise program (damn it)." And so I did.

And then I decided to get rid of all the unhealthy food in the apartment--by eating it. (Don't want to be wasteful--and Tim sure isn't going to polish off that half-pound of sandwich ham!)

And I announced to my classmates my newly discovered condition, and that I was starting an exercise program, and several of them said they'd join me, so now I have to stick with it.

But the thing about remaining calm is that it doesn't always work inside. My head knows all the logical things, but I guess I didn't give myelf time to acknowledge what a potentially huge thing it is to have proof that there is something terribly unhealthy and dangerous in my life. Dad says, "well, it's not like you're going to drop dead from a heart attack tomorrow . . ." but doesn't that happen to 30-year-olds sometimes? I mean, it's not outside of the realm of possibility or anything.

And I do eat a lot of cheese!

So I'm upset and depressed, and scared, and I'm worried I'm going to develop an eating disorder. I came home with low blood sugar tonight and needed to stuff some food in my face just so I wouldn't pass out. Normally, that would be cheese and crackers. But instead I looked for something healthier. I found a Trader Joe's frozen bag of chicken fried rice (and all the ingredients were good) and made that. And then ate it worrying that I used too much of the spray olive oil in the pan to fry it, and what about the fatty bits on the chicken, and is white rice merely not the greatest thing to eat or is it in fact raising my cholesterol by fractions of a point as it heads down my gullet?

It's pretty ridiculous, I know. I know what's healthy, and that we do eat very healthily. (I guess I did marry someone who is beyond anal when it comes to the food he puts in his body.) But I suddenly feel paralyzed and in the dark, like I forgot all of that, and as though I was just deluding myself into thinking we were healthy when actually we subsist on McDonald's supervalue meals.

I guess that year of mozarella sticks and hot wings, aka 2002, is catching up with me.

Money

Tim's grandmother Liz worked for nearly 40 years and was brilliant at saving money. She's the reason he was able to go to New Zealand after graduating from high school, and why he emerged debt-free from college. When he started his first year of grad school, she gave him a check that was nearly equal to one-third my yearly salary in Chicago.

I've never been around money like that. I know a lot of people who have inheritances. I knew that was never my lot in life. When I'm feeling particularly greedy, though, I daydream about my grandmother loaning me money for grad school, then forgiving the debt in her will.

It's shitty to think like that. But money will do that to you. After the first year, we started to expect another check the second year. It slipped grandmother Liz's mind. Or maybe she never intended to fully finance us. We didn't exactly ask her about it, and planned our budget on Tim's stipend and my salary. We get by. We cut corners more than I'm used to, and live more luxuriously than Tim's used to.

But the idea of money in the family is hard. As soon as Liz got sick, I started to think, "what if she put Tim in the will? Maybe we'd get enough to put a down payment on a home." I knew family was important to her--it seemed completely plausible that she might do that. I felt like an asshole. This was Tim's grandma, his last surviving grandparent, but instead of worrying about her health, I thought about her money.

It turns out, her two sons were the sole beneficiaries of her estate. Tim's uncle is a multimillionaire. For real. And his dad does well for himself. It just doesn't seem fair.

But I realized that getting money ourselves wouldn't have been much better. If Tim had been bequeathed a thousand dollars, I would have thought, "one thousand?? Why didn't he get five?" If five, why not ten?

Ten? Why not twenty?

No amount would have been enough. In the end, I am really very relieved we didn't receive anything. We'll get by on our own, and be happier about it.

Down for the holidays

I've been sad lately. I don't know why exactly. Last week I blamed PMS. This week, I just don't have an excuse.

Maybe it's work. I've been pretty busy lately, absorbed with my Spanish-speaking client. I feel so powerless to help her. I don't know the first thing about how I could get her a work visa, or even an under-the-table job in the meantime. I've spent my evening worrying about her getting to the health department tomorrow for a doctor's appointment without me. I suspect a lot of my co-workers think I need to just chill out, but I can't even explain how absolutely responsible I feel for her. I know once she passes along, whether it be on to bigger and better things, or even back to the bad situation she left, I'll stop thinking about her, and it will feel as though a big weight is lifted. But for now, I worry.

Maybe it's family. The closer I get to seeing them, the harder it is to be away. Already I'm worried about what it will be like to leave them again--Chicago too.

Being a mom

I was a mom this week. Or, was mistaken for one.

I took a client to the health department for one of her children, and I watched her other, a 5-month-old, during the appointment. I don't know a single thing about babies. Do you still need to support their heads at 5 months? I didn't. He seemed to be able to do it himself. I bounced him on my knee, and swayed back and forth to hang him upside down. I couldn't tell if other moms in the waiting room were looking at me disapprovingly, or it was ok to hang a baby upside-down, but since he was squealing with laughter, I thought, oh, what the hell?

He also gnawed on my fingers. If he actually had teeth, I think I might have lost a digit. And it reminded me of The Truth about Cats and Dogs: "You can love your pet, just don't LOOOOOVE your pet." I may have gotten a rash from it.

Anyway, it was comforting to be able to keep him calm, and to stick a bottle in him when he started fussing. But most happily, he didn't stink up his diaper when I had him. He fits in my arms, though he is muy pesado (which I quickly understood from his mom as "heavy"). I think I held him so much that my back was sore the next day.

So I guess as long as they don't stink up their diapers (because I'm not quite that advanced in babycare), I kind of like babies.

The weird thing, though, is that I can't figure what to say to them. I can't "ooga-booga" them, and I can't talk to them like they can talk back. Considering how vocal and gushy I am over the kitters, I don't understand my paralyzed silence in the presence of babies. Oh well.

I can't sleep

I can't sleep. I am dreading going to work tomorrow and having people find out that I dropped the ball for one of my clients. I don't dread people finding out as much as I dread the fall-out of me not taking care of something that I should have. That it will screw over my client when it was really my fault. Nothing will happen to me. My boss might be displeased for a little while, but I would deserve it, and can deal.

But I have an excuse. My head has been going a mile a minute in the past few days, trying to figure out how to best serve someone who is mentally retarded and incapable of monitoring her health. Spending hours on the phone with different agencies, most of whom say (between the double talk), "we can't help her; she's your problem now," and hours sitting at the doctor's office, waiting on blood tests and glucose monitors; she's all I've been able to think about lately. To the point where I am starting to feel anxious about being online at home right now, in case the night manager is trying to reach me to tell me the client is sick again.

And yet . . . it's not a good excuse. I routinely have up to five people I'm working with at once. It's part of my job to juggle them all.

Oh to be an editor still. To have my worst worry be that I let a mispelling slip into print, or a journal sent late to the printer. I did a freelance job for the old department last weekend, and I remembered all the parts about the job that I loved (not the parts that I hated). I am a little sad to have editing be only in my past. I sometimes wish I could meet with clients four days a week, and the fifth, run the production department, knocking out brochures, flyers, the Web site.

Working with people--the part I wanted when I was stuck in a quiet office editing all day--can be so overwhelming sometimes.

Orange Crush, don't fail me now

The depressing thing about being with a health nut is that I am slowly coming around to his way of eating. Brown rice used to remind me of being poor as a kid. So I hated it. Now I love it. But now I can't eat Girl Scout cookies because their preservatives leave a gross taste in my mouth.

So I don't really look twice when I go into our medical clinic room, which houses the staff fridge, to get my lunch. On the exam table are 5 boxes of different kinds of sodas. Picked over in the last few months, what's left are overly sweetened fruit juice cocktails, Diet Coke, and Orange Crush. Not my speed.

But today I took an Orange Crush. I remember drinking it when we'd go into town with dad, riding in this:

(but rusted green, and with a passenger-side door that refused to stay closed going around corners.)

If we were with dad, we were going to the auto-parts store or gas station. There was Markley's Service Station on the outskirts of town, so we could take care of business without even going inside the city limits. The station had a soda machine. The old-fashioned kind you rarely see anymore, with the long narrow door on the side where you'd pull the bottle out of metal teeth.

The soda would be dusty, greasy, and icy cold. It was amazing. I still think the best soda is from a glass bottle.

I just don't want that memory to be tainted by a real sip of an overly saccharine soda.

Someday I'm going to

Run a whole-body health center. I'll do therapy; Charity will teach yoga. We'll make friends with a massage therapist and ask her to move her business into our space. We'll need a naturopath, an acupuncturist . . . what else? (We had a big long list . . .) It will be a beautiful space, women-run. The walls will be painted brilliant colors, there will be lots of plants everywhere, and windows. We can hire out the yoga space for drum circles in the evenings, or hold art openings in the lobby. It will be a center that draws in people and gives them comfort.

Open a store-front theatre. Tim will be the artistic direct and I will do the business of running the company, as well as be the graphic designer for all our publicity materials. We'll put on small shows that incorporate music and dancing and we'll become the rage and hotspot of the Denver theatre scene. There'll be a small cafe or bar attached to the theatre space, and it will be a dark, quiet hangout for patrons before the show, and where the actors unwind after. When there's not a show up, we'll have open mic nights, and I'll get up a band of my social worker friends, where I'll play the drums.

Be a young adult librarian. I'll wear my hot librarian glasses and create an oasis in the middle of a library for the young adults. I'll spend my days reading and recommending the latest books, and planning activities for the youth advisory board to carry out.

Run a creative arts camp for at-risk youth. Maybe just for girls, though I'd hate to deny them the joy of having camp flings. It will be a camp in the middle of a forest, with a small lake for swimming and boating, trails for hiking, and dusty cabins for hanging out during free time. There will be workshops for writing, acting, and music. The kids would all work on their individual talents and create a piece to be performed at the end of the week/month/summer.

Educate about domestic violence. I'll be a reknowned speaker and trainer for domestic violence. I'll lead workshops and inspire people to advocate for battered women. I'll write books and manuals, and everyone will refer to me as "the leading expert in . . . "

I will change lives, give hope, make a difference.