RBF

I have five stages of exhaustion. 

The first stage is sleepy. It's a mild stage, easily cured with a cup of coffee or three. Lately, this has been the main stage of existence. It's not a hard one to handle, so I've gotten used to it. 

The second stage is resting bitch face. My attitude is still the same. I'm still happy and sarcastic, but I've lost the ability to control my face. While I might be saying, "No, no, don't worry about it.  I'll take care of it.  Easy." My face will be saying, 'Really? I have to do this now, too? Great.'  To fix this, I have to constantly remind myself to 'fix my face' and drink more coffee. Coffee saves the world. 

I know I'm entering into the third stage when I'm failing at fixing my face. I know that because people start asking if I'm okay. They tend to stop asking when I officially reach stage three: resting bitch attitude. I don't usually get this this far into the cycle. It's the point of no return. Im so exhausted and just plain grumpy, but I can't sleep. My body won't let me. I just lay there, eyes closed, trying to will myself into sleep. But I can't. I have to finish the cycle. So, for anyone who encounters me during stage, go the other way. 

This morning, I entered stage four. I was up at four fifteen to coffee automatically brewing. That is seriously the best way to wake up, especially at this stage. Bounce out of bed, spill creamer on the counter, grab a cup and get ready in record time. This is the listen to musicals and 90s music and sing at the top of my lungs between fits of self-administered giggles stage. This is the most fun I've had in weeks. It's the elevator drop right before it stops. 

...and then it stops. Then I enter the final stage. Where I fall asleep as soon as I run out of fuel. In my car outside my apartment. In the tub. At my desk. On the floor...right next to my bed. In the closet, finding pajamas. I just run out and stop. This stage doesn't even have a name. It's just the end. I will finally get rest. I will sleep for 15 hours straight and I will be me again. 

I hope I can put that stage off for a while today... As comfortable as this room is becoming, I have to work until about 7pm. 

typical

Once again, I had such high, high hopes for the day. Last night, after a glance at my calendar, I curled up and set my alarm for 20 minutes later than usual.  

That never happens. 

-

That was last week. I haven't even had time to finish a post! No events scheduled for three days lead to down to staff and about to be down three. That means my brain is a skip's scramble. My body is running on empty. Caffeine isn't enough. I wonder if this is how some people start doing drugs...like Liv Tyler's character in Empire Records. 

Calm. Deep breaths. I'll be home three and a half hours. I won't have a 12 or 14 hour day today. It'll only be ten. 

My stomach is screaming at me. This is the only time I've slowed down enough to be able to hear it for days. In ten minutes, when I have to start running around again, it'll be silent again. Well, not silent, just unheard. 

Emails are going ignored. I'm not ignoring them, I just haven't been in my office long enough to have an answer. I wish I could just say that, but I can't. I can't promise I'll have the information tomorrow, or Friday, or even by Monday. 

My desk is, once again, a hot mess. Not that I get much time to sit there to be bothered by it. 

I can't even be coherent anymore. I'm easily distracted as it is, but I would always be able to hop back into my sentence right where I left off. Now, I just stare. Stare and forget I was even speaking in the first place. 

I've been blonde for a year now. I think. My timeline has been muddled lately, too. This weekend, with this mess, I dyed my hair the darkest red. I chopped it off. Four inches: gone. I gave myself bangs. I switched from brown to black eyeliner. None of these things I noticed until this moment. This one moment of calm. None of these things will I remember once I grab my keys and run out the door again. 

Five minutes. 

My eyes are drooping. My skin is pale. My skin is always pale, but blush and a little bronzer used to bring me to life, now they make me look like I'm on display at the mortuary. 

Three minutes. 

If I just had time for a nap. Just one nap, short and sweet, I'd be good to go. Maybet circles would lighten. 

Two minutes. 

My feet barely had time to relax. Time to shove them back into my heels. Where are my keys? Oh, under that stack of paper. 

One minute. 

Collapse.  

Wine, wine, wine.

Most of my days end with a sigh and a glass of wine. Yesterday was entire bottle. 

Oh, yes, self medicating is bad, but doctors also say a glass of red wine with dinner is good for you. 

If a little is good, more must be better!

Today, though, was good. I didn't get much done, but I feel good about what it did do. 

I have a girl who has been through a hell most people couldn't imagine. She lives in constant fear of returning to a similar hell, and tomorrow, she has a very real chance of actually doing so. I don't think that would happen, but it is a possible outcome. Worst case scenario. 

I talked with her until I couldn't speak any longer. She cried and she yelled and everyone was a bitch and everyone was out to get her. It took every ounce of strength I had not to cry, too. 

So why, was today a good day?

I left her with dry eyes and hope. If I can just do that, then every bad day is worth it. 

Today, today was magical. Today ended with pumpkin spice m&ms. Also, a glass of wine. 

The calm

Tomorrow, a new girl moves in to one of my houses. She's young and shy and even tempered. For the first time in months, I feel the good sort of anxious. A weight has been lifted and calm has settled in it's place. The storm is over and the weather is finally changing. I spent all day yesterday painting her room; painting over the last remnants of the old inhabitant. The storm. 

She was schizophrenic, although sometimes I think there was more to it than that. She'd be sweet and playing air guitar one minute, and throwing a chair through a window or breaking a staff's arm the next. More than once, I put my life on hold to stop the destruction. Zoo trip with my visiting aunt, wedding reception, and, multiple nights, my dinner.  All skipped. All spent dodging flying rocks and 'fuck you's. She was the human embodiment of chaos. 

She was the only one whose med list I knew by heart. I'd read it often enough to admitting nurses, psych hospital staff, and pharmacists that I'd be shocked if I didn't. I'd spent more time in hospitals and had more interactions with police officers in four months with her than I had my whole life before. 

She went to church every week. Sometimes twice a week. That never did any good. The pastors said she had demons in her, a theory I'd normally only except in a horror film. Standing in that room, newly painted like the sky on a cloudless afternoon, I felt it. It could have just been the color of the walls, but I could feel the lack of darkness. 

She wasn't all bad, hence the chaos. At the end of what was one of the most emotionally and physically taxing days of my life, she brought a smile to my face. I finished a phone call and felt tears filling my eyes when she walked up. She bounced her head off my shoulder three times, each time accompanied by a 'boop,' and then she simply walked away. Without one word, she moved toward the door. I yelled after her, asking what it meant. She turned back and smiled a pure, genuine, smile and said, "you know, honey." Moments like that are the reason I do what I do. They're also the reason her bad days hurt so much. 

One bad day, after talking with her for over an hour, her guardian gave the okay to phone the police and have her taken to the hospital. The arrival of the police only upset her more. I was on the phone with her mother, my staff was clinging to my dress and cowering behind me. I was already fighting tears when she did it. She was yelling at someone named Joe (there was no Joe present, nor did she ever know anyone named Joe), and when an officer stepped toward her, she landed a punch. They both had tasers aimed at her before I remembered to breathe. She got a few more hits in before being thrown against the car and handcuffed. I spent the next five hours bonding with her mom while she was admitted. 

I've seen her pick up broken glass and slice her wrist. I've seen her try to carry out a death threat on her roommate. I've seen her shot up with sedatives by badass psych nurses. I've also seen her give what little she has to make someone else smile. I've seen her stop what she was doing and give a friend a reassuring back rub. I've heard her give a peer the same pep talk I've given her so many times. 

She didn't leave of her own volition. We had no choice but to give her notice. She was a threat to the safety of her roommates and staff. She was the reason I couldn't sleep at night. What is she going to do next? 

I was the one who took her to her new house. Movers came and packed up her things, and I drove her over. The house is in a part of town I only hear about on the news. I can only imagine what could happen once the honeymoon stage is over. I left her in a neighborhood where, when she's outside throwing her rocks and yelling her 'fuck you's, the neighbors won't stay inside and shake their heads. I gave her one last hug and finally let the tears I held for her flow, but only once I'd started driving away. She couldn't see them. 

I was conflicted up until the moment the paint dried. I took a deep breath, and felt peace for the first time in that room. Although, it could have been the fumes. We'll see tomorrow.  

not my day.

The best way to start your morning: phone rings as soon as you step into the shower. 

No, I will not answer that. 

When it rings a second time, however, I can no longer avoid it. 

Work starts as soon as I wake up. 

It's not even eight am and I've already solved my first crisis of the day.  I haven't even had coffee, yet! That's an accomplishment. I am going to be positive today. 

Three emails, six phone calls, and 28 text messages later...

Apparently, I am not the only one who thinks I need a clone. Apparently, some people believe I already have one. Receiving a phone call from a client's guardian asking why I'm not at the house to meet her is bad enough, but not knowing that I was supposed to be there is even worse, especially when I have a doctor visit for someone else in half an hour. 

No, the bedroom is not painted. I am waiting to get the supplies from the other office. They said they'd bring them today.  

Oh, it's being delivered today? Of course, I knew that. 

Yes, yes, I have someone on their way to meet you. 

Lies! Am I allowed to be pessimistic and whiny, yet?

No, one of the handicap parking spots is actually open at the clinic! There are two, and they are always taken. Every time we come here, I have to park around back and wheel her up the hill to the door. Today can still be a good day after all. It's only 930.. It can still be a good day...

"We don't have you on the schedule, Laura." 

It is taking every ounce of whatever I actually have left (I forgot to take my allergy medicine this morning, too) in me to not slap this girl across the face as I as her, "Are you sure?"

"What time are you supposed to see the doctor?" Her voice told me I'm not hiding my emotions very well. People aren't used to seeing me angry. 

She runs back to talk to the doctor and apologizes for the mistake. Of course, since we weren't marked down, they're double booked. 

11:20 and I'm still sitting in the exam room. A creepy exam room. It's not our usual. There's so much I could be doing! I fixed my face after the encounter with the receptionist, but I don't think I can hold it much longer. It's been a long time since I've angry cried, but this whole week has been like today, and I know it's coming. 

I have another appointment at 1. I have to paint that bedroom. I have get a check in the mail and I still don't know where it needs to go. I have a staff with a case of missing vacation hours. I'll have to trek to the pharmacy and wait around while they fill her prescription. I have two ridiculously important emails to answer. I know my voicemail light is blinking away on my work phone. I can feel it. 

2:37 pm and sitting in the pharmacy is the only moment of peace I have had today. I hate the pharmacy, but this is the most relaxed I've been all day. I hate that the douchey one is the only person I can talk to because everyone else is new and looks at me like I'm not speaking English.

Breathe deep. Close my eyes. Smile.  

I have a bottle of wine at home. 

paradise

It may be 830 in the morning, and I may not have had any coffee yet, but I am in doctor's office paradise. 

The receptionist wasn't headache causing cheery. She didn't hand me paperwork I wouldn't possibly know how to fill out for myself, let alone another person. I got the easy ones today. 

The coffee is fantastic. I did something I haven't done since college (which usually means something ridiculously awful) and put hot coca powder in my coffee instead of creamer. Oh, I forgot how good this tasted. 

I don't even care how the rest of the day goes. I am sitting in a zen garden waiting room, watching nick jr, and drinking a great cup of coffee. 

This is doctor's office paradise and this is my reward. At least for the next few minutes...

death.

Today is the day that I die. I knew it was coming...I've felt it for some time now. My head is spinning, my eyes are blurred, my breath is trying, and my heart is screaming. 

Allergy season is upon us. 

Every year, it builds up. Every year, each morning gets worse. Each morning, the number of sneezes increases. As that number increases, so does the time my eyes spend in waterfall mode. All of my energy is depleted to such an extent, even the smell of my coffee automatically brewing as trouble coaxing me from the embrace of my satin comforter. Slowly, even doubling up on Claritin has no power of the symptoms. 

I must face the day (the meetings, the pharmacy trips, and the doctor visits) without the comfort of makeup. The constant nose blowing and streaming tears get rid of that in 20 minutes, anyway.  It's not giving up, it's acceptance. Anyway, I'd rather not have any makeup on than dreadful mascara tears. 

I've mastered the art of dying over the years. I've grown accustomed to it. While  people around me show concern for my gradual decreased spirit, I know better. I know I will die. 

I will die, and then, as if the past few weeks were nothing but a dream, I will be reborn. I will awake to various cartoon voices scolding me and coffee dripping. I will be sneeze free and my vision will only be hindered by close objects and alcohol. My mind will be sturdy, my breath will be unhindered, and my heart beat clear and equal. 

I have known suffering equal to passing through Shelob's lair and the desert between Tashbaan and Archenland in the year 1984, but I know, as they knew, a better day is on the horizon. 

So today, I die, but tomorrow, tomorrow will be as glorious as spring at Walden Pond. 

overnight

The best part of being a supervisor? When someone calls in sick and neither of us can find a sub staff, I get the pleasure of unpaid overtime. It's my luck that my Labor Day was spent doing just that. 

I worked from two in the afternoon Monday until eight am Tuesday morning. And that's not counting my regular scheduled programming. It's not that big of a deal. It's not like I was doing anything important. Except that it was Labor Day and I was enjoying my day off with nonstop BBC on Netflix. 

It was an easy night. The only things I actually had to do was daily paperwork (easy), pass meds (easy), and cook lasagna (not so easy).  I lucked out on the cooking...there was plenty of leftovers and they all wanted that instead. They were even on their best behaviors for me (besides a few snarky comments about my running shorts and T-shirt).  Oh, they were even all in bed at 930. I couldn't have asked for a better unpaid shift on Labor Day. 

I did a little more paperwork and laid down on the couch to call asleep, too, but figured 'hey, it's Labor Day, why not watch one more episode of Sherlock and pretend I'm home.' So there I was, laying on the couch with my laptop burning on my chest, when her door opened. My little hypochondriac was awake. 

"I took my temperature and it's 99.3. I need soup and orange juice."

"99.3 is perfectly fine. What you need is sleep."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I know everything, remember?"

"Alright. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, girl."

My episode was just about over as I took my laptop to the kitchen to get my sleepy time glass of water. It was almost midnight. Definitely should have skipped Sherlock, but I'm a fan of delusion and I wanted to be home. I turned around to head back to the couch and there she was again. 

"I'm hungry." 

"Why are you still awake? You have school in the morning, young lady. And I have a meeting." 

"You know how I said I'd have one Dr. Pepper with dinner and that's it?"

"Oh, you sneaky..." The last time she had more than one pop that late, she was up until four am. 

"Yeah! So I can't sleep. What are you watching?" She is 20 years old and has the smile of a 14 year old girl who just learned how to sneak out of the house. 

"Sherlock."

"Like Sherlock Holmes? I love Sherlock Holmes."

And with that sentence, I waved a decent nights sleep goodbye. 

She only watched about an hour of it with me before she finally went to bed. I sent her off with the title of the 'movie' she had hopes of renting. 

It was after one in the morning when I finally got to close my eyes. I felt guilty giving her false hope. At first. When I opened my eyes twenty minutes later, my alarm was sounding. Did I even sleep? 

What an unfortunate way to start the day.  The day I have a meeting with the director of operations. The day I had my new dress packed, but not my concealer. 

She was all bubbles and sunshine when she awoke. She even helped with the other girls morning routines. She could not, however, help the circles under my eyes or the eight hours of meetings and appointments ahead of me. 

If my sleep schedule wasn't jacked enough already...

Goodnight moon. 

nonsense.

I had such high hopes for the day. I was going to get so much paperwork done! One appointment. One little physical and the day would be mine. 

How silly of me to be optimistic. 

I've learned the pattern and yet, each time I have a day like today, it surprises me.  

How in the hell is it already 315 in the afternoon? And what do I have to show for it?

I not only should have known based on the pattern, but also by the fact that the doctor's office I visited was an office I've visited often. An office with which I was familiar. An office with fantastic coffee. An office that had fantastic coffee.

As soon as I walked in the door, my eyes went straight to the corner table. The table where the coffee sat. It was empty. I stood, with my travel mug, and my heart, empty. 

First sign of a bad day! I'm not usually dramatic over coffee...except I am.  Especially when I then have to sit in a 32 degree exam room for an hour and a half, in a short dress, with no coffee.  And there went my day. I have to take her back to work now, then to my office, then scan the 27 documents the state is asking for, then print off 27 different documents for the houses, take said documents to the house, and it's five pm. 

Nothing is finished. 

Nothing ever gets finished. 

Oh, drama drama, stress stress. 

Time for a glass of wine. 

Rinse, and repeat tomorrow. 

heart

"It could be all that smoking, you know.  Smoking two cigarettes in less than ten minutes can make you dizzy."

She stares at me from the tall, cold, awkward-paper-covered exam bed. She knows I'm right, but she doesn't want to admit it. 

"You have pretty blue eyes like me, Laura. I just noticed that." 

All I have time for is a smile before the doctor walks in and immediately starts asking questions. 

"Is it worse when you turn your head?"

"No, just when I'm walking." Then, the most Oscar-worthy moment I've seen from a client. She turns her head as far to the right as possible and jerks it back to the front, hands on her ears with her mouth open. Home Alone style. "Oh! I lied. It does get worse when I turn my head."

And just like that, we got sent to HyVee for Gatorade while the nurse got a heart monitor ready.  Don't get me wrong, I love the better safe than sorry approach when it comes to someone's life, but oh, the drama this girl will create with one of those. 

I am always right. We got the monitor on a Friday and by Monday, she had called the monitoring center 14 times. 

No, they had not seen any irregularities. 

Yes, the monitor is functioning fine. 

No, there's nothing else you need to do. 

I can handle two and a half more weeks of this, right?

watch.

I love when pharmaceutical reps walk into the doctors office. Really. They're probably some of the most interesting people I've had the pleasure to people watch. They're probably taking a few samples themselves. 

They are always dressed fabulously. Right down to their designer shoes. Male or female, it doesn't matter. There isn't a hair out of place. Not a single crease in their suit. This counteracts the luggage overflowing with samples and pens and pamphlets that they cart around and stumble over. 

The luggage is what makes them interesting. You can tell who they really are just by their bag. You can see the person behind the primped and pressed exterior by the condition of that bag. 

The new ones always have that brand spanking new bag; the fabric is stiff with confidence and naivety, the zippers sparkle with zest and anticipation, and the pamphlets stacked neatly and at the ready. 

As they spend more time in their position, their bag starts to show it.  They might keep a neat exterior, but they can't hide the wear and tear of that luggage: broken zippers, dirt and coffee stains, pens and pamphlets shoved together willy-nilly where they don't belong... it's a hodgepodge of a broken soul. 

I have to give them credit, though. They don't show their broken spirit. They show up each week with a smile and polite small talk. They cart that bag to each office over and over again. They dress like Ralph Lauren models and they hold their head high. But, if you look close enough, as they turn to walk out the door, you can catch a glimpse. Just a fraction of a second! You'll miss it if you blink, but it's there. In their eyes you can see the worn down and tired soul, yearning for a change. 

But then, as quick as their guard fell, it's up again as they stroll to their car with that trusty, loyal, tired luggage. 

Attention Deficit Dis..

My brain travels at a speed unmeasurable by man. I think of so many brilliant things...so many...but then, oh! next thought. Previous brilliant idea gone. Then it sits, just beyond my reach, like a vivid dream slips away moments after waking. 

It makes me sad, almost. All the beautiful stories, thoughts, idea, that could have been. Should have been. 

I could be great, if only I could keep up with my thoughts. Even now, I can't keep up. They're always racing. Faster, faster, faster.  It's as if they don't want to be remembered. They want to stay secret. Locked away. 

We know you're genius, but the rest of the world can't know. 

It's not fair. It drives me crazy. I can think three, four steps ahead...but then, where'd step one go? I can't slow down. Stop and smell the roses? Please. I can barely stop for my next cup of coffee.  Oh, that could be the problem. 

Coffee. The root of all insanity. 

The problem is, when I go without it, my brain doesn't move. It stalls. No thoughts, no brilliance, just throbbing nothing. 

There is no happy medium. There is no well-controlled, non-socially awkward (side effect of skipping step one often), brilliant girl. There is me. A very, very weird and awkward, wibbly-wobbly girl with a notebook. 

I don't think I'd have it any other way. 

I think a confident, put-together, version of myself would scare the living daylights out of me. After all, we're all just stories in the end. Might as well make it an interesting one, eh? And what is more interesting than a girl who messes everything up because she can't control her mind?

no touching.

"Heeeey there, pretty lady.  I need to schedule a follow up."

"What days of the week work best? I have an 8 o'clock next Wednesday."

"8 o'clock in the morning? Oh, lady, I can't do that." 

"Hey, hey, hey...no reaching over my counter. No touching, no touching or I'm going to make you go over to Carla over there." 

"Okay, no touching. Have you had a stroke? I have. You forget things after you have one of those."

This man's awkward attempt at flirting with the receptionist continued with feigned ignorance when she explained the rules of fasting before his next appointment. 

"Why would I drink coffee after 10pm? Unless I have something to stay awake for..."

"No, I'm saying after 10pm and in the morning, before you're appointment, you can't have anything to eat or drink except water or black coffee."

"No sugar?"

"No. No sugar."

This is becoming a painful conversation to eavesdrop on.  I'm actually wishing I was in the freezing exam room at this point. I'll just tune that out and focus on another conversation. 

"Mom, I'm fine."

"You are not fine, and even if you are, I still wish you'd make yourself an appointment, too. It never hurts just to get a check up.  Your sister goes to the doctor all the time. She looks healthier than you."

"She's pregnant." 

Next. 

"Get your hands off those dirty, germ covered toys right now. You don't know how often those get cleaned. If they even do get cleaned."

That from the mom who walked in with on her cell phone and let the door slam on the toddler behind her without even a glance or a sliver of concern. 

We have been listening to these conversations for the past half hour. Our appointment was 20 minutes ago. I know we'll end up sitting in the exam room for another 20 before the doctor even sees her. That part will be five minutes. 

-

I'm right. I'm always right. 

Although, the mother from the second conversation walked by while we were waiting:

"Is he coming back to take you home?"

"No, my daughter will pick me up."

spinster

"You're too old to have kids now, Laura. You're 23 and you're not even married!" 

"I'm only three years older than you!"

"Yeah, but I'm cute."

I know she's being funny, but I also know her well enough to know when she truly believes what she's saying. 

"Zip that cute face before I leave it on the side of the road." 

She laughs and makes the motion of a zipper across her lips. 

I love my job. I do. Even when they tease me. Even when a police officer ruins my favorite shoes trying to get me out of harms way. Although, I actually would have traded my ruined shoes for getting ran into (her hands were cuffed behind her back, there's not a lot she could have done!) that day.  Even when they embarrass me in front of the cute nurse, on purpose, and laugh about it as soon as we leave.  They're the reason I get up in the morning.

"Oh I really like that house!" I pointed to one with a wrap around, enclosed, porch.  "But maybe I should just stop looking since I'm never going to need any more space than a studio apartment because I'm going to be alone and childless my whole life."
"Yep."
An exaggerated frown crossed my face and she immediately took to groveling.  
"Okay, no, being serious now.  You will be a great mom.  You'll be old, but you'll be great.  You have to bring them to our house so I can play with them.  They'll call me 'Auntie.'  They'll all have beautiful hair, like you, too."
"I feel better now.  Thanks, girl."  I wasn't really feeling bad in the first place.  You can't do this job if you take everything they say to heart.  If I got upset every time I get called a 'fucking bitch,' I'd go crazy, myself.  Not to mention, 9 times out of 10, half an hour after 'fucking bitch,' comes 'I love you, honey.'  1 out of 10 times it's still 'fucking bitch.'
"You're welcome.  Now, just because you're going to have all these beautiful babies and live in a big house, that does not mean you can leave us.  I'll let you have the babies, but you have to stay our supervisor."
"I can't make any promises...what if the man I marry has to move for his job?  What if he makes sooo much money that I don't need a job?"
"Leave him.  We'll need you more."
I love my job.

excuse me.

I like to walk. After really stressful days, I like to run as far away as I can and walk back. I walk to the Walgreens down the street once or twice a week for the little things I always forget. It's therapeutic. 

Running at night is my favorite.  It's so much more peaceful. Also, stranger danger is half the fun. Keep running, I saw a weird shadow. Keep going so they don't get you. 

I don't live in a bad part of town. I actually live in a great part of town. Nights like tonight make me consider moving to daytime, though. 

Three things. I needed three things from Walgreens, so I got my ass up and walked. The walk there was perfect: summer breeze, no one else on the sidewalk, and no random honks from cars driving by.  The walk back was not so great. 

I wasn't listening to music (I was enjoying the night), so I heard a car slow down.  It struck me as odd as I wasn't near a stoplight. 

"Excuse me, do you need a ride? I work at the Marriott." 

Really? Okay, creepy old man with the BMW, I was totally not going to accept a ride from you, but since you work at the Marriott...that changes everything! I laced my fingers through my keys as I told him I was walking on purpose and did not, in fact, need a ride.

He drove off without another word. 

I was on edge the rest of the way home. Every car that passed gave my heart a little jolt. Perhaps I should brave the heat and go during the day from now on...maybe even sleep with my pepper spray on my nightstand.  Stranger danger isn't such an appealing motivational tool anymore. 

solitaire

I have a solitaire app on my phone that has the capability to turn 7:30 pm into 10:30 pm in the blink of an eye. I don't even want to look at the stats to see how many games I've actually played.  I'm single and live alone, so solitaire is a more than perfect way to pass the time. 

The undo button is my favorite feature. I go so fast, I often click past a card I could have used. I don't even see the opportunity staring me in the face. I even end up pulling a new card down when I could have uncovered one on the bottom (notice my complete lack of knowledge of card terminology). Taking that card from the bottom could have revealed an ace! or something equally as beneficial. Still, I go too fast and the cards blur as I skip over them. 

Life needs an undo button. A wait, I went too fast, let's go back and actually analyze the situation before I make my move button. 

I don't know how many times I've gone somewhere this week (or my whole life to date...stats are high either way) only to have left what I needed sitting on my desk. I don't know how many times I've looked back once the situation has calmed down and I think, "it would have all been much easier if I had done that instead."  My favorite is, "if I had stopped talking at that sentence, I wouldn't be in this mess." 

Undo, undo, undo...

I am addicted to the stupid game. I try to keep as many cards in the pile as I can so I can hit auto complete and the all swish into order. I do, however, have a nasty habit of starting a new game before I've made sure I'm out of moves. Ehh, start over, would be another nice life feature. 

Clean slate, new deck. 

My worst habit is quitting before I even try. Getting dealt every card in the same color just isn't worth the time. Chances are, it'll be a waste. Why bother if it's fairly clear it won't work out? It's daunting. Who wants to deal with daunting, card game or otherwise?  New game. It's so simple to move on and maybe have an opportunity to win. 

Most importantly, in solitaire, there's no other player to screw it all up. I'm tired of people screwing everything up and messing up all the hard work I put into what I do.  

Life needs to be more like solitaire.  

frustrating.

I feel like I have gotten nothing done today. Absolutely nothing. Truth: that's accurate. 

This is running through my head as I sit in the pharmacy, drinking my fifth cup of coffee of the day. I know I have a list of everything that needs to be done before I can go home tonight. It just seems to get longer and longer. 

Today was a bad day to wear a dress. I thought I'd have one stop today. One stop turned into two, which multiplied to four. In the rain. In a dress that barely touches my knees. 

My spirits were lifted for a few moments when the nurse who came to walk me through the discharge was incredibly attractive. They fell again when he opened the door for me, displaying a wedding band. I felt better about that after five minutes of talking to him. He had a "Midwestern accent" (let's face it, that means no accent, people), that had laces of British and Bostonian every few words. It really started getting on my nerves. Was he fucking with me or is this a legit problem for him? Either way, my poor ears were not processing this mixture very well. 

I again felt my overworked heart fall when I pulled up to the pharmacy and saw the douchey, bright blue Hyundai in the lot. The last person I wanted to see after a day like today is a short, 'stylish' man with his hair done the way my brothers did theirs in the 90's (half a bottle of hair gel so the front sticks straight up). Oh, and the goatee. 

I prayed he would be helping someone else when I walked in.  He wasn't, but he was on the computer.  He looked up when I approached the counter and walked down to meet me. 

Damn. 

I'm going to take my own advice and look at the positives. Everywhere I went today, I got compliments on my dress. Even if it was soaked from the rain. 

week from hell.

I am being punished for something. That's got to be it. I did something to piss karma off and now I'm paying for it. 

Last week I spent a total of 10 hours in two separate hospitals. It would have only been five in one...if they had listened to me. After the third hour, when the behavioral specialist finally showed up, she had plenty of flirt time with the nurse (he was very cute) and was in such a good mood that she smiled and said, "I feel great and I want to go home. I won't hurt myself or anyone else." More smiles and a hug for the nurse and we were out the door. 

Not even 12 hours later, we were at a speciality center. Police escort and all. The first question one of the officers asked me after I filled him in:

"Why was she even released last night?" 

While they argued over wether I was pessimistic or realistic, they agreed that if they had my job, they wouldn't be able to handle it. 

"How do you still have hair on your head? I would have pulled all mine out by now." 

That should be a sign. I should probably listen to the police officer telling me that my job is too much stress. Instead, I stood in front of him, trying to convince her to calm down so they can take the handcuffs off. She stood up and screamed and in that second the officers were in front of me and my toes were smashed. My baby toe looks like a blueberry. 

Her roommates knew where she was as soon as they realized she wasn't going home that night. They took turns calling their parents, who then took turns calling my boss and the state; complaining that I didn't call them and let them know. 

This is the point where I want to be rude, too. Really? Do you want me to call her guardian when your daughter does something at work? Just because she messed up and needs help that we can't really give her, does not mean she doesn't have a right to privacy. Really. 

All of this, plus the paperwork that goes with it, plus another girl constantly going AWOL, plus staff that leave the country with almost no notice, plus my own ridiculous personal life with my increasingly worse boy problems...

I am being punished. 

Now, instead of catching up, I'm sitting in another waiting room.  

I'm surprised I have any sanity left...although I've noticed a significant decrease in that. I can't keep days straight. I can't remember where I'm going once I start the car. I can barely eat with my stomach constantly turning. 

Maybe I should follow the police officer's indirect advice. I don't like this view being a regular part of my day:

erotic love?

Opening a new group home is pretty difficult. Before you can even find a house, you have to have clients to move in. You can't put money down on a house and then, oops!, only two clients are ready to move in. They can't afford it and we can't afford to have a staff with only two clients. The most important thing, though, is making sure it is staffed when it's ready. That means, we have four staff hired and trained by the time we're ready for everyone to move in.  That means, we have four staff floating around in no-mans land waiting until the position they were hired for actually exists.  

If it will actually exist. 

We ran into some trouble during this process.  One of the girls suddenly isn't ready to make the move from her parents house yet.  No new group home.  Not yet. Now these staff stuck in no-mans land have a choice: they can accept another open position, switch to on-call status, or find another job. 

That is a tough call to make. It's awkward telling someone, "I know you were hired for those hours in that house, but it won't be available for a few months. We do have these hours at this house available, if you want them. There's also this position in vocational of you want day hours instead."

Two staff accepted other positions. The other two were proving hard to get on the phone. 

One evening, my office mate and I were making our last attempts before we turned in the personnel form stating abandonment. That's when we made the discovery that she had one of the phone numbers wrong. She looked through her call list to see where the mistake happened and found another number she thought could be the staff's. It was an incoming call number that happened an hour before this staff was scheduled for training the week before, so she called the number to check. 

"Hello, this is Samantha, am I speaking with Diane?" 

"No, this isn't Diane. This is a business."

"Oh, this is a business, too. I was trying to get ahold of one of my staff. Which business is this?"

"This is Erotic Love."

"Oh, I definitely have the wrong number. Sorry."

She hung up the phone and we laughed until we were in tears. We finally got ahold of that staff, who claimed her phone was broken so she had used a friend's that day. That answer raised more questions, but we agreed that it was best they go unanswered.  There are some things you're better off not knowing. 

scrambling

First day back after vacation and I've already decided I need a clone. That technology needs to be perfected right now. I can multitask the shit out of anything, but I think I've reached maximum capacity. 

My desk, as my lovely coworker put so delicately on a sticky note in the middle of my monitor, is a hot mess. 

I am a hot mess. 

As soon as I get on a roll and my paperwork is getting done (fully this time), my phone rings and it's time to switch gears. Crisis mode flips on and I end up in a doctor's office with a shrieking baby and his obnoxious older sisters fighting over a half eaten apple and a Spider-Man coloring book. That's if I'm lucky. Sometimes I end up sitting in one of the houses until 1030 pm; playing therapist. If I had a clone, I could be at the pharmacy and in a meeting in opposite sides of town. Just think of the efficency. 

Until this happens, I'll just have to make due with 12 hour days in a dress and heels, running all over the city, and answering emails at stop lights (not that I actually do that...that would be bad...). 

It would be nice if everything would run smoothly in the meantime. Especially since I'm ridiculously behind after taking one day off. I can dream, but I doubt it'll work out that way. One day off and five doctors had to be called, I lost a staff for two months, and someone has a new WebMD diagnosis and needs to be at the doctor ASAP before her lung collapses. 

So much to do...can I go back to the lake where I had no responsibilities? I had the doctors office with the Keurig to look forward to today, but the only stupid circle insert thingys left are sleepytime tea and decaf breakfast blend. Time to try and trick my mind into thinking decaf has caffeine and make a list of everything that needs to be done today. 

I wonder if I could convince my boss to let me hire a "clone." 

where's the romance, dammit?

Whatever happened to good, old fashioned dating?  Seriously.  
I want to see some cute couple on an awkward first date; fingertips barely touching across the table.  I don't want to see a guy with his pants at his knees holding a girl's ass as they walk into the gas station for cheap vodka.  I don't want to see a girl dreaming of a picket fence and hopelessly pinning over a guy with no interest in her except the attention she's giving him and the countless favors it comes with.  I don't want to see a man spending all his money on taking care of a girl who spends her time with someone else.  I don't want to see a girl going back to the first girl she met right out of the closet because she's afraid of the game on the other team.  I want to see shy glances and flowers and a man walking a girl to her door, giving her a goodnight kiss, and turning around to go home. 

Is that too much to ask?
Does that mean my views on love have been biased by Disney and various romantic comedies and my parent's and grandparent's own love stories?
Is this just the time we live in?
In a world of 'baby mama's' and rap, Twilight and Taylor Swift, does the good stuff still exist? 

I've seen proof that it does.  It's rare, but it's out there.  It's a shame that there are so many people out there afraid to be alone, afraid to wait and work to find the good stuff, that they take whatever they can get.  Love as we known it, knew it, may be becoming extinct.  
Or I'm just incredibly pessimistic.  Either one.  

“I've been making a list of the things they don't teach you at school. They don't teach you how to love somebody...They don't teach you how to walk away from someone you don't love any longer. They don't teach you how to know what's going on in someone else's mind...They don't teach you anything worth knowing.” -Neil Gaiman

And some people never learn on their own...
I want to see real, 1960's type romance. 

 Or maybe something along these lines. :]

vacation!

It took some time, but I finally remembered my last vacation. Over three years ago, my boyfriend and I went to Kansas City for the weekend. I haven't even taken more than a day off for my birthday (not counting the two sick days I broke down and took and four or five times I came in late or left early when sick because I refused to take a full day) in the past year. Tomorrow, I am taking the day off and going out of town for the weekend. 

It's not much, and I'm incredibly excited and I definitely need it, but I'm worried. I keep thinking of things that need to be done. No one has an appointment. No one has a meeting (technically I do, but I wasn't even aware of it until today and was told it wasn't important). Everyone has petty cash. Everyone has meds. Staff know who's on call. Staff know how to handle a behavior. 

I think it's guilt. My caseload isn't the easiest. I hate to put the responsibility of the hypochondriac and the schizophrenic on one of my coworkers. What if something happens and they're stuck dropping everything to take care of it. That's my typical day, but I don't wish it on anyone else. So it's guilt. Guilt or I'm a workaholic. Yesterday I was in the office until after 8 and I was back this morning right at 8 am. I'm single. I don't have kids. All I do at home is workout, watch syfy shows on Netflix, and cuddle with my cat (and work on my addiction feeding, server connecting, company laptop). Those people, even the girl who follows me into the bathroom so she can show me her latest injury, are my life. 

Is that pathetic? It seems a little pathetic on paper.  It's not so pathetic when you take the human element into account:

I just need to unplug, relax, and have a drink or six. I need a few days of not waiting around for my computer to decide to print a PDF file. 

Everything will be here when I get back and, I'm going to the office with the Keurig on Monday. 

Breathe...forget about what could be in that inter-office envelope I left unopened...enjoy my vacation. 

Got it. 

subtle masochism, part dos

Today, I was prepared. I knew I'd be sitting in a waiting room for at least an hour and, in my attempt to help myself out, I brought my own coffee. 24 fluid ounces of actual, semi-decent, gas station coffee. Today I would not be fooled by the waiting room excuse coffee. I could ignore the voice in my head, because I had something better. Granted, not by much, but it was something.  

As I walked into the office, my triumphant smile fell from my face. This office has a Keurig. 

I shouldn't be surprised. This is my life. I keep going for the bad over and over and when I finally settle for semi-decent, there's something incredible right in front of my face. 

I can't have them both. I can't just toss a full 24 oz cup of coffee in the trash can. I have a commitment to see this cup through, though it tastes worse with each sip and each stolen glance at the Keurig.  My stomach is churning as I get up to walk out the door. I had tried to finish the cup I had so I could grab a cup of the good stuff, but each drink seemed to be replaced. It wasn't going to go away and it didn't matter what I did to try to get rid of it. I steal once last glance, and regretfully walk out the door. 

I just can't win, so why not let the masochist take over?

rant.

Two days ago, a bird pooped on me. I walked into my office and began disinfecting my entire body with Clorox wipes. I explain to my coworker what happened as stares at me with a confused look. 

"Oh that's good luck!" she said. Then it's my turn to look confused. 

"How is being shit on by a bird good luck?" 

"It just is," she shrugged. 

At this very minute I am posted up against my apartment door, fighting angry tears. I was having a good night. I worked late and actually felt productive when I left and i went for a record long (and would-be record fast run, had I not stopped by Walgreens). I felt great as I rounded the corner to my door. That feeling instantly vanished when I reached for the key that wasn't there. 

I knew I should have doubled up on sports bras. 

Here's my reasoning. I keep forgetting to get dry shampoo every time I'm at the store. I figured, if I make it my mission when I'm out, I'll remember to stop in Walgreens on my way by. Point two: no one wants money out of a bra of a girl who ran to the store. I can barely fit my phone in my armband as it is, and it took me twenty minutes to try to squeeze it in with cash (debit card was definitely not making it).  So it was decided. Phone in hand, cash behind case, key in bra. 

I am an idiot. 

My lovely apartment complex has 24 hour maintenance, but they don't do lockouts. Imagine that.  

So here I am, waiting for a locksmith (that I have to pay), about to cry. I'll probably have to go for another run to make myself feel better.  

Good luck, my ass. 

expectations

I think part of the reason, okay most of the reason, I have a terrible time at every doctor's office I visit is that I have hope. I have hope that when I walk in, I'll be greeted by a handsome man in some sort of medical profession (my hope is not picky). 

One of my girls has either caught onto this, or she just likes to tease me. The first time I took her to her primary she gushed about his perfect hair for 20 minutes. In walks a lanky old man who tells stories about his grand kids. 

The first time I took her for her psych she did almost the same thing. I didn't buy it this time, although I did have a small speck of optimism in the back of my mind. This time I got an ex-football player looking man who maybe hadn't let go of that time. He included me in the conversation more than he probably should, but it wasn't until he said "I bet when Laura's wet," instead of "I bet when Laura's upset," that I felt it was time to go.  I may have only taken psych in high school, but I know what a Freudian Slip is, sir. 

Maybe I just shouldn't have any expectations. Then I can just just be surprised with every bit of craziness I encounter. Including this incredibly outdated office I'm in right now. 

winner.

In this troubling time of starting over, trying new things is important.  That was my reasoning behind deciding to hang out with a new group of people.  Going out of your comfort zone is essential for a newly single girl.
It was supposed to be a night with decent looking guy and his incredibly hot friends.  The decent one offered to pick me up on his way downtown.  Unbeknownst to me, we were not going to make it downtown.  
As it turns out, his parents house is close to my apartment.  We had a drink in his parents basement as he picked out a movie on demand.  Yes, I was trying to be bold and adventurous, but I still don't enjoying bringing up a subject to make myself even more awkward, like, "aren't we supposed to be meeting up with some sexy bicyclists in the Old Market?"  Instead, I sat there, in this man's parent's basement, and 'watched' one of those terrible spoof movies. 
When the movie was finally over, we left to go to the bar.  We didn't make it to the interstate.  We went a block north to what might be the strangest bar I've even entered.  The owners either couldn't decide on a theme, or thought it would be fun to try everything all at once.  It was called Bogies and it was a sports/karaoke/danceclub bar owned by a middle-aged Chinese woman.  The menu also had an identity crisis.  She couldn't decide whether to serve homemade chinese food or bar food, so she combined them.  The other customers were just as diverse.  There was the country bumpkin group in their cowboy boots and hats with flannel shirts in one corner.  Gathered around the pool/beer pong tables were the bros with their chains and sunglasses.  It even had the skinny girls in ugs and pajama shorts on the dance floor trying to shake their asses like Shakira.  Of course, I couldn't forget the table of very large women, each drinking pop straight from their own personal pitcher with a straw, waiting for their turn to sing Adele and get booed off the stage. 

I had finally worked up the courage to break the uncomfortable silence and ask if anyone was meeting us.  He had an excuse for why each one of them couldn't make it.  Que more awkward silence.  I continued to people watch as I felt him stare at me.  I could tell he was trying to find something to say, but as I had nothing to say, I couldn't help him.  Besides, I was busy watching a cowboy dance to lil Wayne.
Our silence was broken by his ringtone.  His mother was on the other end and even in the karaoke filled bar, I could make out yelling.  I gathered that someone at the bar had seen us and called her.  I also overheard the words "trashy," "little girl,"  and "take her home."  
On the way home, he asked my age.  I figured that was coming.  The bartender didn't I.D. us and his mother must have thought I was under 21 if she ordered him to take me home.  This sort of thing happened to me a lot, but usually in reverse.  People tend to assume I'm older, not younger.  This was not a night I wished to repeat, so I gave a coy, "you can't ask a lady that question" response when he asked my age on the drive home.  I hoped that by not offering my age, it would confirm that I was underage.  
When we pulled up to my apartment I realized that might have been a bad idea.  He awkwardly swooped in for the goodnight kiss while still in the car.  I pretended not to notice and 'fumbled' with my seat belt.  He cleared his throat and mumbled something about calling me some time. I quickly said sure and good night and almost sprinted to my door.  My heart didn't stop racing until I slammed the door shut behind me.  I immediately sunk to the ground in a fit of the giggles. 
I laughed until tears streamed down my face.  I am an awkward person, but I don't think I have ever experienced anything so ridiculous.  My fit stopped as soon as my phone went off.  He texted me.   
"love u hope to see you again soon"
I think I'm going to stay in my comfort zone for a while.  Trying new things is overrated.

Girl] interrupted

I feel like I'm in a scene from girl, interrupted every time I'm in the psychiatrist's waiting room.

"Hello," she says to break the silence. 

The wafer with sopping wet curls and bug-eye sunglasses gets up and walks out side. She stands right in front of the door, turns around, lights a cigar, and stares at us. 

As she turns to make conversation a similar looking girl, who at that very moment buries herself in her phone, the PA behind the counter tells us it'll just be a minute. Then miss dry, but unnecessarily hair gelled, curls has something to say. 

"What time is your appointment?"

"2:30," she answers. 

"What doctor are you seeing, because my appointment was at 2:30 and if your next then I just don't understand." Her words were thrown out so fast that I almost didn't understand. 

"She's not seeing the doctor today," I tell her, hoping that's what she was looking for. She appeared happy with that answer and, unfortunately for me, open for conversation.
"I'm getting my shot today, do you get shots?"
"I used to, but I don't need them anymore." Skinny girl put her phone down and leaned forward in her chair.  "I only come in once a month now."
"Oh, I still get shots. I like your shoes.  Where'd you get 'em?"
"I've had them for so long I can't remember.  Oh, wait, I got them at footlocker."
My client turns to me and asks, "Can we go there when you take me shopping?"
"Yeah, probably," I answer as I glance up at Nick, the PA, again.  He holds up five fingers with an apologetic smile in response.
She turns back to hair gel and the questioning starts.  
"Are you married?" She asks as she starts absentmindedly peeling lose hairs off my shirt.
"Nope."
"But that's a pretty ring you got on.  Did your boyfriend give it to you?'
"I don't have a boyfriend.  I got this when I was visiting family in Texas.  See, it's not even on the right hand for marriage."
"Do you like to go fishing?"
"No, anything with sharp and slimy objects isn't for me. What agency do you work for?"  Before I realized that last part was directed at me, she adds, "I used to have Lasting Hope, but no one helps me anymore..." Her voice trailed off as she stared out the window.
How do I respond to that? I can tell you need it, but unless you have a developmental disability, I can't help you.  This is the only field I know, I can name all the agencies like mine in Omaha, but I have no idea what else is out there.  As I scrambled to think of something to say, bug glasses walks back inside. 
'I like your glasses," my girl tells her.  Without so much as a breath, bug glasses walks back out the door.
"I'm ready for you two now, Laura." Nick saves the day.  We awkwardly exchange pleasantries with the unmarried, curly haired woman in the cute tennis shoes and walk back to the exam room.
At least I can say I don't have a boring desk job.

Homaha.

All my life I dreamed of leaving Omaha and moving to a 'real' city. I hated that my high school, located well inside city limits, was surrounded by cornfields. I hated that my dad ran into someone he knew literally everywhere we went. I'm not using literally like Chris Traeger. My dad knows everyone. 

The only thing to do as a child was play football in the street with the olda' boys and get scraped up to all hell. I'm sure I have more than one scar on my body that I don't know about.  I suppose there was the zoo, but that got old fast as it was every adult-in-my-life's trick to tire all of us out.  Every night, I fell asleep dreaming of a place with more excitement.  
In high school, there was a surprising amount of kids that moved to Nebraska from places like Detroit and California and various places in the middle-east and India.  I always felt bad for them, and they were often getting into trouble, as teenagers in a place with little to keep them occupied usually do.  They all moved to Omaha with the notion that everyone in the city owned a tractor and the majority of the roads were gravel.  I was asked once if many family owned any pigs and if they were cute like Babe.
I wanted more than spending my Saturday's in Panera and drinking coffee on a swing in the park.  Hide and seek in cars was a highlight, though.  It had just the right amount of suspense, speed, and trickery to make me happy.  Which I'm now realizing must mean I was dead inside if it took near-death experiences in traffic, on purpose, to make me happy.  It makes sense, considering it took five more years to realize that Nebraska is actually a pretty great place.
I love that Omaha is a big enough city where I can run to Walgreen's to pick up shampoo and not worry about someone I know seeing me all sweaty and smelly (I am not my father and do not understand how he knows so many people), but small enough to be able to get from Downtown to West O in less than half an hour (depending on the time...not so lucky during rush hour, but still).  The number of douches is upsetting, but it's balanced by a large amount of people with actual taste in music.  Which is nice.  I have never been on a tractor that actually runs, but the one at Vala's Pumpkin Patch is still fun to climb on.  I have been on a farm once, and have no desire to return fearing my obituary would read, "death by two ton spotted beast."  My high school might be surrounded by cornfields, but it's Boys Town land.  I don't really have an excuse for the rest of the random cornfields, but I like them now.  Character, right?  I've still been to the zoo way too many times, but it's the best zoo in the world.  Fact, and opinion. There are gravel roads everywhere, but there is also Dodge Street; the bane of every Omaha teenager with a learners permit's existence.  Dodge scares visitors much bigger cities with it's four lanes and five exits in one mile of space.    
It took a lot of bumps and a lot of awkwardness, which is still there and I like it that way, to stop looking past what I have for something 'better'.  This is what's better.  I can't say that with complete certainty since I haven't actually lived anywhere else, but I'm happy here.   
The best part, it takes 10 minutes from anywhere in the city to find a road like this to clear your head. 

Oh, if people actually read the crap that spills out of my head, please tell me you got the teen girl squad reference. 

subtle masochism

Another day, another bad cup of coffee in a waiting room. 

Why do I do this to myself? I know it's going to be horrible, and I know I'm going to be mad at myself afterward, but I reach for the styrofoam cup anyway. 

I take sip after sip, cringing each time the thick, molten substance someone mislabeled as coffee passes my lips. It's so mundane, and yet it has such power over me. Power that I couldn't begin to explain or understand. 

I've tried to resist...I've sat on the opposite end of the room as far away as possible. I've even faced the other direction when possible. The scent of the beans brewing always fills the room. It overpowers even the strongest 'old lady smell.'

Then it taunts me. How many hours of sleep did you get last night? It asks. Come on, I wouldn't hurt you. I thought we were friends, why are you ignoring me? Don't leave me...I love you and I know you love me. 

And I'm once again out of my chair on my way to the coffee. I'd like to think of myself as a strong, independent woman, but I have my weaknesses. I just can't resist. 

Oh it's easy, just don't listen! I want to listen, though. I want to see if, this time, it's decent. It never is, but I'm apparently a masochist. I can't say no. Sometimes, I don't even want to try. I know my stomach will churn and ache all day, but I reach out and take that styrofoam cup, anyway. 

mindy.

It's been a long time since I've been pulled into a comedy show. I never got into 30 Rock or Community and it took quite a bit of pressure from my friends to watch Parks and Rec. I was betrayed by television when Arrested Development was cancelled. 

My poor, fragile, 16 year old heart was stomped on by network executives with no idea of the damage they caused. 

I became absorbed in shows like Grey's Anatomy; shows that understood my heartbreak and helped me cry it out. Oh the problems of a white, middle class, redheaded girl in Nebraska. I still had The Office, and I did let Big Bang Theory in a few years later, but I had never let my wall down. 

Mindy changed my life. Mindy changed my life because my life is Mindy. No, I'm not a successful, sexy doctor with a disposable income and horrible dates with wonderful men. I work with people with disabilities and make a decent amount of money for a crazy cat lady to live comfortably. I can be hot (it takes some time). My dates are few and far between and are horrible not only because of my awkwardness, but because of the horrible men they include. I once went on a date that I didn't know was a date until he went in for the kiss.  That would have been an adorable romantic comedy moment had it been a guy I was actually interested in.

Oh and as far as dates with men I'm actually interested in go...let's just say that those make up the minority. I'm the girl that gets friend-zoned with the good guys, and gets chased by the hot bad boys or just plain stalked. Seriously, creepily, stalked. Side note: Why do the good guys always tell me I'm too good for the guy I'm seeing, but don't want to risk losing our friendship by seeing if it could be something more? Does not just happen to guys. 

Back on track: I am a hopeless swooner. I can romanticize a fax. I blame this on my unhealthy addiction to television.  I am a walking, talking IMDb, but I couldn't tell you everything I did today. Mindy restores my hope in life. Mindy restores my hope in me. Now all I have to do is move to New York, because that is clearly the place where a weird girl like me is appreciated. I just have to conquer my fear of leaving Nebraska. 

There is also a problem with following through on a highly romanticized move to a place like New York: nothing ever works out how I plan it. Although I'm definitely mean enough to fit in. 

Now, before I follow my train of thought down another scenic route, I need sleep and if you haven't watched Mindy, do it. It's the best thing those ridiculous executives have okay'd in a long time. For now, my heart is healed. 💜

creepy cat lady

This morning, my cat helped me pick out my lunch. I didn't get a chance to eat it, but it's the thought that counts. 

I don't understand why something like this is "creepy cat lady-like," but if Dinah were a dog it wouldn't be weird. Double standard!

Why can't cats have play dates at the park? That would be adorable. Why does it make me seem like a weirdo when I tell people my cat licks my nose every morning when my alarm goes off?

The thing is, I may be a creepy cat lady, but I'm happier than I've been in a long time. I love having all this time to myself and my best friend. 

If that makes me a cat lady, so be it. 

:]

surprise, surprise.

Another waiting room. Another doctor running behind. 

I am literally surviving on doctor's office coffee at this point. No time for lunch, not today, not surprised. I had paused for a moment with my fridge open this morning, wondering, should I bother today? I decided to be optimistic and pack a lunch. Maybe, I'll get to eat it tomorrow. That hope flees as I take a sip of the coffee no amount of creamer can make less bitter and I think of my calendar. 

It is now 3:13pm. Our appointment was at 2:30. 

I can say one good thing about waiting rooms: the people watching is fantastic. There's an elderly couple in the corner; quietly bickering. The woman threatened to hit her husband over the head with her cane, and that ended the conversation. 

There's the cliché emo girl in the corner, hugging her knees with her headphones in. She's staring at me like she knows I'm writing about her. 

A man who barely speaks English walks in and I wonder if he can even communicate well enough to tell the doctor how he's feeling.  He looks paranoid, too, never making eye contact, but always looking from body to body. 

As I watch, I longingly think of my yogurt sitting in the fridge in the conference room. That thought makes time go even slower. Another hour and a half drags on before I'm finally ready to go home. 

Tomorrow I only have one waiting room on my schedule. I can't wait for an easy day, but I don't think that'll happen any time soon. At least I can entertain myself somehow along the way. 

can I have a you make a copy of the script for my records?

"Why do doctors make you wait so long?"

I want to answer, "because this is the fourth time this month we've been here, you silly little hypochondriac, and they know this and are probably busy with people who have something real wrong with them." 

Instead, I say, "you should ask her, I bet they do it for fun." 

She laughs and proceeds to wiggle her "swollen" foot, the reason for this particular visit, in circles. 

"I can't ask her, that would be rude! She's the doctor, she can make us wait as long as she wants."

"I suppose she can." 

After a 46 second examination of her foot, it's off to get an x-ray. There's another few hundred dollars to tack onto her bills under "unnecessary medical procedures with normal results." 

These people know that, and that's why they play into it. As much as I hate dragging her to the doctor for her newest WebMD diagnosis, I hate how these doctors handle it more. Feeding into her delusional vertigo by saying, "it could be a side effect of any of your psych meds," and sending us to her psychiatrist to have them reevaluated is not how you handle a girl who thrives on the attention.   Of course, the psychiatrist left the meds the same, but had me schedule a follow up in three weeks. 

And so the never ending cycle of waiting rooms continues. I spend more time in exam rooms than I do in my office, watching the "concern" in the doctor's eyes grow as she describes why she needs a full body MRI.

"We better schedule one, just be safe," they say.

"We'll get more money out of this," is what they want to say. 

She returns from her x-ray and the nurse tells me, much to my surprise, that everything looks normal. The nurse tells her to ice and elevate as she wraps it in an Ace bandage. It's exactly what I told her the day before, but I can see her face relaxing as the nurse wraps. 

As we walk out the door, I tell start to tell   her, "told you so," when she wraps her arms around me and squeezes.

"Thank you." 

I go through a lot of trouble, and it can drive me insane, to give this girl, and others, peace of mind. In this field, going to the doctor to get a new medicine, or even to be told that you're fine, is something they can understand. This is where they find reassurance that they really are going to be okay. It may push me to my breaking point if I have to sit in another 32 degree waiting room, telling myself i do NOT have to pee, this week, but it all melts away when they say thank you. 

That is, until the next time...

not so neighborly.

I've never been one to bother to meet my neighbors. I come home and lock the door and that's that. I like it that way. I don't interact; I design their lives. 
Bruce was an older, round man with disappearing hair. He was divorced with a daughter around the age of 12 who spent most of her time with her mother. Bruce liked to spend his nights standing outside the door to our building playing angry birds, smoking a cigarette. If he was having a good day, he'd be playing bubble shooter and smile as I walked past. Bruce lived a lonely life, but he was content and kept to himself. He was the perfect neighbor, until one day when his Netflix DVD was in my mail. 
His name was Max. He liked Tom Cruise action movies. The mystery was gone and in it's place: a connection. I now had to knock on this man's door and exchange pleasantries and return his Netflix. Like a neighbor. 
I moved out when my lease expired two months later. 
My next building was near perfect. It had the right amount of drama paired with eye contact avoidance in the halls. The woman above me cheated on her boyfriend and he always caught her. The couple across the hall sold weed, and on occasion, a little cocaine. The girl next door never paid her rent on time, but was always leaving in strange vehicles all hours of the day or night. 
Not long into my second lease, I became one of those stories. When my boyfriend and I broke up, it was surreal. It was somehow just as entertaining as the lives I have given the neighbors. I, again, had to move. 
I had a chance at a new start and I was more excited than I thought possible. I moved to a nice, small complex where neighbors stopped and said hello. I even went a little crazy and learned their names. There was Pat, the old spinster next door who did a load of laundry every night. Sally, a middle aged brunette, lived on the second floor and had a beautiful chocolate lab named Abby. The close-to-retirement couple, Jim and Nancy, lived on the opposite side of me with a pair of spaniels. Mary lived around the corner with her small, yippy, fluff ball of a dog. Everything was going great. Everything was great until one day, I got a neighborly knock on my door. 
Mary. Mary asked that fateful question that, normally, I would have answered with a smart ass comment and a door slam. Mary asked me if I was religious. 
In the spirit of fresh starts, I tried to let her down gently. Mary took that as an invitation into my home, after a quick run around the corner to grab her bible. She spent the next ten or so minutes explaining her church and what it teaches and how to "get the most out of the good book."  After many attempts to kindheartedly throw this woman out of my apartment, she finally left. I now have to endure smiles and hugs and church invitations from the elderly woman two doors away. I now have the urge to draw the blinds and turn off the lights when I see her sweeping the sidewalk outside our doors  Quickly! Before she sees that I'm home.  Even Sally and her beautiful lab send my brain racing to find an excuse in case I'm asked to dog sit again. 
I have become invested. I'm even 65% certain that Pat passed away a few weeks ago, but I dare not ask should it deepen the relationship with a neighbor. 
Being my reclusive and judgmental self is much easier. What hit me hard enough on the head to make me think developing relationships with my neighbors was a good idea? I may have turned over a new leaf, but I'm still going to tell you I'm out of eggs, even though I have a full carton.