She Needed The Money

My best friend and I have a secret thing that we do, as most women do I'm sure. We facebook snark. Throughout the day, we patrol the status updates of our "friends" and then text back and forth about how retarded said friend is. The exchange usually ends with me making her an offer of money for a mean comment. For example:

me: Crisp $20 bill in the mail to you tomorrow if you comment "Jesus doesn't love you anymore".
her: No way!!

me: A $50 check could be on it's way to you if you comment "guess you should have used birth control"
her: no.

me: 2 $20 bills are being placed into an envelope right now. I will write your address on the envelope if you comment "hey wait, weren't you married last week?"
her: you do it.

But not tonight. Nope. Tonight, she cracked. Two former classmates, met cute and married. They live the most awesome life ever since having the most awesome child ever. One is a mousy ham-armed bitch. The other is a George Hamilton wannabe corporate drone. A match made in heaven. Life is just fecking fantastic for these assholes and thank god there's facebook; otherwise, I might miss the minute details of their fabulous existence. Ok ok, I will admit two things. First...the corporate drone...my boyfriend in high school (not the important one, though). Secondly, the only reason I added them (him, her, who knows...they share facebook...how lovely) was to sharpen my catty claws at their expense. My friend is mean, not as mean as I, but she is learning. The following update popped up on my news feed:

C*ndy S**th H**f ‎.... the cook at Banzai tonight told Lamar and I we were famous....he thought I was Tina Fey & he thought Lamar was Steve Carrell.
58 minutes ago via Facebook for BlackBerry · Comment ·LikeUnlike · Share

Am*nda G**nn Rams**r Hahahahaha! Did you sign autographs?
55 minutes ago · LikeUnlike.

C*ndy S**th H**f No autographs please :)
51 minutes ago · LikeUnlike.


This is where I sent my best friend a text, offering up $20 for a comment insinuating that dude was just looking for a tip. Before I could say "Cha Ching!", I saw the comment box expand:


C*ssie F*m*y That guy will say anything for an extra tip!!!!!
25 minutes ago · LikeUnlike.

C*ndy S**th H**f No extra tip, their automatic 15% is already too much for the poor service. Plus, Tina Fey and Steve Carrell really don't impress us that much. I mean really, do either of us look like them? I have glasses but that is it. :)
21 minutes ago · LikeUnlike.

Awesometastic. I could hear the sputtering from 500 miles away. Meanness is a quality best exercised among friends and best rewarded with cold hard cash. Unfortunately, my friend won't be receiving that $20 anytime soon. Yet another lesson in meanness. Courtesy of moi.

Oh, and don't feel bad for the Tina Fey non-look-a-like. Bitch had it coming.

One more thing, in case anyone was wondering. Being small and petty is quite satisfying every now and again. Hey, at least I'm honest.

Eat Walk Die

I had an eventful weekend.

I saw "Eat Pray Love" and left with my usual lament that it wasn't nearly as good as the book. But, it was still good. I was melancholy as Hell on the drive home. I haven't yet processed all of it; but the gist is this: I wish to God I had enough money to escape for a year. I would edit Ms. Gilbert's itinerary by omitting India, opting instead for Greece. I could come much closer to God on an isolated beach. I would keep Italy and Bali in, though...as long as Bali held the same Javier Bardem promise. I have the same hang up that Ms. Gilbert suffered, I want to know "how long". I miss things and people and I am reluctant to just give in to missing them because I am terrified that once I slide down the slippery slope, I won't be able to claw my way back up. A global tour would go a long way toward helping that.

I completed the Elvis 5k at Graceland in nearly 100 degree heat. And, I did it in under an hour. Yes, I walked the entire race; something I am not used to, and something that I have a new respect for. As I started out, I was thinking, "Phffft, this isn't bad at all." Then I saw the 1 mile mark. ONE MILE??? I thought I was at least halfway through it. By the 2nd mile mark, my shins were screaming. I honestly wanted to take off running, just to get it over with quicker. But, I hung in there. And, I learned something along the way. I had always assumed that anything in South Memphis was seedy and blighted. The neighborhood around Graceland, off the main drag, was nice. Nice well kept, well landscaped homes that would have been right at home in High Point Terrace. And, some of the residents stood out in their yards and aimed their sprinklers and water hoses at us as we passed. Not in a "Get out of my neighborhood" kind of way, but in a "Wow, you look hot, here...have a spray" kind of way. On the last mile, they stood out in the yards and cheered, "You're almost there!". It was great! After the race, there was a smorgasboard of goodies, including but not limited to: Krispy Kreme donuts, beer, hot dogs, fruit, coke, coffee, and popcorn. And, I got a tee shirt.

I made a live television appearance on Sunday. It wasn't my first television appearance, but my first live one. I presented a big check during a telethon. I was so nervous, I thought I was literally going to pass out and die. When it was over and I was walking off stage, I then thought I would pass out and die from relief. As I stood backstage, my heart pounding in my head, chest, foot, I tried to remember the last time I felt so nervous. I couldn't. We were waiting for the band the finish up their number and I was so dismayed that, should I drop dead, I would die to "Play That Funky Music". I always thought it would be "Layla". I couldn't have my death played out in such a cheesy and sucky fashion, so I bucked up and basically disassociated. After I cleared the rickety stairs off the stage, I had the roller coaster moment. "Oh my God! This is so scary! I'm paralyzed with terror! Oh no, it's my turn! Oh God. I can't breathe. WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Wow! That was fun! Can I go again?"

Emergency Chute and PA System

Most days, I would give just about anything for a PA system and an Emergency chute, a la Steve Slater. Mr. Slater, a former Jetblue flight attendant, reached his limit on Monday. You can read about it here:
http://blogs.wsj.com/metropolis/2010/08/09/fed-up-flight-attendant-pops-planes-emergency-chute-at-jfk-slides-away/
I feel this man's pain. Though I have never considered how beneficial props would be, I feel fairly certain that I could do some real damage with a PA system.

"Good afternoon, Bitches, and thanks again for choosing Jetblue. It has not been a pleasure to serve you today, as some of you got on my last fecking nerve. Let's give the passenger in seat 19D a round of applause, as he actually managed to knock the shoulder of every passenger in 18 rows with his large duffel; because after all, he really is the only one on the plane. The lady in the back, Ms. I Don't Know How to Modulate My Voice, we all hope you find your bracelet and we are all sorry that you didn't enjoy Cabo to it's fullest extent due to your stomach virus. Those passengers who did not opt for a shower before heading to the airport...being closed up in this tube with your funky asses for the last 90 minutes has been a little slice of heaven. Would the chic with all the Bohemian garb please stand up? Yes, you there, you boarded in Memphis dear; not Bali. What's with all the beads? As if your exposed armpits weren't bad enough, frankly, your feet should be enclosed in shoes; as they are a hot mess. To the passenger in seat 17F...thanks for jeopardizing all of our lives by lying when I asked you if you would be able to open the emergency exit. Quit playing, you couldn't fight your way out of a paper bag. You can't even breathe with your mouth closed. And finally, Jetblue wishes to extend a heartfelt Buh Bye to The Most Obnoxious Parents Ever. Your kids have snot running out they nose and you spent 5 minutes trying to negotiate their favorite purple drank from the beverage cart. Their screaming and whining only served to add to the ambience. Wherever it is that ya'll are going, please either stay there forever, or drive home. Now, I would like to take this opportunity to say Go To Hell you self indulgent pieces of shit. Most of you should not be allowed to fly the friendly skies, as ya'll have the manners of cloven hooved animals (and thanks to your blown out flip flops, I see you have the cloven hooves to match). They have Hertz for people like you and it won't do nearly as much damage to your maxed out Capital One as this ticket did.
Now, where is that damn Chute release button? Oh, there it is! Feck all of ya'll!"

And with that, I would slide my way to freedom and a book deal.

Liquor is Quicker

Wow, I was really burned out yesterday. I am really curious about the statistics of how many public service workers have drinking problems. I was all lathered up about the government dole yesterday, I came home and stewed, blogged, even squeezed out a couple of tears of frustration. Then, I went back to work. It's what I do. So, I am taking a break from doing in favor of getting the writing about doing back on track yesterday afternoon, when I had an epiphany.

I haven't been utilizing my interns properly. I have never had interns; therefore, I have no idea what their role is. But, now I know. They are there to do the grunt work. I am there to determine the need, not meet it. So, some changes are in order. I get the sense that I am the only one who didn't know, and I can't blame anyone but myself. I too have been guilty of not telling the new person all about the ways that us old timers are supposed to help her. That's my karma, I suppose.

After work, I went out and had margaritas and didn't discuss my frustration. Why bother. Anyone who knows me knows that I am still trying to decide what I want to be when I grow up. Plus, I get tired of the flip responses of "So, just quit and do something else". Right. Anyway, I came home and watched the election results and then went to bed.

And that is when it got strange.

I dreamed that it was Labor Day Weekend. And there was some sort of neighborhood fest. The people across the street had a huge shindig. A UPS truck pulled up and I didn't answer the door (which is standard operating procedure). I spied the very cute driver letting himself into my home. He had a large box. He opened the box and began putting cans of coke into my fridge. Then, he washed up my dishes! So, that is what brown can do for me! I came into the kitchen to question this stranger. He was very non chalant and said that he was just helping me out a little. THEN ALL OF A SUDDEN, all these people streamed into my home and posted up in my dining room. It was the crowd from across the street. At least 15 people were now sitting in my home, looking at me all expectantly. UPS guy says that he would like to take me out for dinner; however, it looks like I am busy. Right about that time, I looked outside and was horrified to see all these broken down campers on my lawn, with what appeared to be carnie type folks malingering around them. The campers looked like they had been there for decades! I was trying to tell him that I had no idea who any of these people were, but it was too loud. I woke up MAD AS HELL.

So, today, I am going to give some thought to what the hell that's about. Oh, and do some social work too. It's what I do.

Just. Make. It. Stop.

I am going to start playing the lottery. This time, I mean it. The job that was once a blessing, is now a curse and I am, once again, drag assing around. So as not to bring about any sort of "help" from the Universe, let me just say right now...I am still thankful that I am working. But Lord have mercy, I am exhausted. And behind. And frustrated. And I still don't have a lunch partner. And, I don't like my clients. The list just goes on.

It has become apparent that I was hired to do 2 full time jobs in one full time role. I would love to think that the powers that be thought that I was so fabulous and capable that they hired me based on my juggling skills. I would love to believe that; however, I don't. I think they hired me based on the fact that they needed to fill both positions quick and I was qualified. I have been given an overstuffed binder that is falling apart and basically set loose on the needy citizens of West Tennessee to practice social work magic. I laugh at my early notion that they "got it". That they understood that the absolute worst thing a social worker could do for her client is to do it for them. Superficially, most people believe this. But when it comes down to it, most still subscribe to the belief that if the client isn't willing to do their part, it is perfectly okay to just pick up the slack. Which, of course, creates dependence. Soon, you begin to get calls from people because they can't seem to get themselves to the doctor's office. Or, they are out of milk. Or, heaven forbid, they can't buy notebook paper. How is this my problem? I believe in helping people dust themselves off, not washing them clean of any and all responsibility for themselves.

And the paperwork!!! My God. There are two types of social workers. Those that do, and those that write about doing. I do. I hate writing about what I do. I understand it is a necessary evil, but often I find myself writing the same thing on 3, 4, sometimes 5 documents; all for the sake of grant money. I will never be caught up with paperwork, it is a fact that I need to learn to deal with. I have three offices, in two counties and one in my car. Papers slung everywhere, forms half filled out, post it notes with scriblings like "Ms. X needs detergent!!!" stuck everywhere. It is never as simple as just getting some detergent to Ms. X. No ma'am. First, I have to fill out a form, justifying why Ms. X needs detergent. Then, I must fill out another form (all longhand) stating that I counseled Ms. X on detergent conservation. I must log Ms. X into a large book whose location tends to change weekly, documenting how much detergent I gave to Ms. X and the estimated value. I must call Ms. X to make sure she will be home to receive the delivery of the precious washing powders. Delivery is then made. But it isn't over there. Not by a long shot. Ms. X must sign a form stating that she received the detergent. Next, a longhand note is made detailing (all in 3rd person) exactly what transpired when I brought Ms. X the detergent. At the end of National Detergent Delivery Month, I must then compile a report and include Ms. X's receipt of the detergent so that, I suppose, it can go into some sort of national detergent database. But guess what? Now Ms. X knows that any time she runs out of detergent...she just makes a call and we do it all over again. Month after month. Times 15 clients. Would it not just be easier for Ms. X to haul her ass down to the Dollar G and purchase some Sun? No. You know why? Because Ms. X prefers Tide. And Tide is what she gets.

Sometimes, I miss the sterile viper pit of a hospital that I used to work in. I made very little difference there as well, but at least the paperwork was minimal and the patients wore gowns. Gowns that were laundered by someone else. With someone else's detergent. That I didn't have to purchase, deliver, or document.