Diet Schmiet

I have a love/hate relationship with Weight Watchers. Generally, over all, I love it. But some days? Oh, how I loathe the WW.

I've always been a bit on the "heavier" side of things. No one in my family is particularly petite; mostly due to our "healthy appetites". We've never substituted butter and 'low fat' was the equivalent of 'no flavor' in my house. I didn't even know what a portion size was until I was in my 20s and Burger King was the only one cooking in my house for a period of time. So, needless to say, I was a pudgy thing in high school and the freshman 15 dorm-life padded me even more. Then, when I started this job, I stress ate to add another plumping 20 pounds.

I should mention now that I hate exercising. Hate. Abhor. Loathe. I am a tried and true couch potato. What I hate the most about it is sweating. The feeling of sweat is so... gross. Especially when it drips between my boobs or down the crack of my ass. Eeeyeew. I shudder writing this thinking about it. If I'm sweating, it better be because I'm laying in the sun working on my tan while drinking a cerveza; not because I'm on a treadmill. Any weight loss I'm doing has to be either through osmosis or diet.

Also, I carry weight funny. I am not one of those people who equalizes it everywhere. I carry 90% of it around my stomach. I have a severe case of spare tire. With a love handle complication. Muffin-top should be my middle name. Because it happens no matter what pants I wear. It's pretty disgusting, honestly. I try to pretend it's not there and hope everyone else does too. I've taken to wearing baggy sweaters a lot to cover it. I don't want to look at it - why should anyone else have to?

I was pushing 210 pounds on a 5'5" frame when I became pregnant with Keian 3 years ago. Apparently my husband didn't mind the extra flab - more cushion for the pushin? Anywhoo... I was quickly diagnosed as having gestational diabetes, which resulted in a strict 'light carb' diet. Which I followed religiously for the first about 6 months. Taking my blood sugar 4 times a day got really old, really quick. I am in awe of the people who have to do it day in and day out their whole lives. I know for sure I couldn't do it.

As a result of the diet, and the daily puking for the first 20 weeks of pregnancy, I weighed 185 after I delivered. I lost 25 pounds while pregnant. And stayed there for some time, despite breast feeding (which I was TOLD was supposed to help with the weight loss. Liars.)

Fast forward a year. I have a friend I met at work whom I love dearly. She was also on the larger side (but carried it MUCH better than me). She moved on to greener pastures in another state shortly before I delivered my son. I was talking to her one day and she told me she'd lost SEVENTY FIVE pounds on Weight Watchers. She talked it up real good, telling me how easy it was and how much she loved it. I was feeling pretty good about the 25 I'd lost already, but knew I wasn't supposed to be at 185 either. As it was, my size 16s were pretty tight. She talked me into joining.

I did the 3 month online stint starting Sept 1, 2007. I lost another 25 pounds, dropping me to 160 (25 short of my goal weight of 135). I was a size 11 and feeling pretty good. When Dec 1st rolled around, I cancelled. I decided I knew enough about counting points, what portion sizes looked like and what a normal meal should consist of. Which I still firmly believe. I thought I could continue it on my own and just forego the tedium of entering every. thing. I. ate. However, I got lazy and fairly quick. I stopped thinking about food and just ate. Whatever I wanted. Whenever I wanted. I began stress eating again and Dairy Queen was almost a daily staple. I put 15 pounds back on pretty quick. And was back into my size 16s.

So, last month, my job decided to pay for WW. A whole bunch of coworkers decided to try it out and talked me into recommitting. So I started. At first, I was really into it, but quickly remembered why I stopped. Because I suck at documenting my food. And counting my points. The monotony kills me. I've done well enough so far - I've gone from 177 to 165 in the last month. That's with using all my flex points (and even going way over two weeks in a row). I've decided there is a skinny bitch in there somewhere wanting out. I just keep shutting her up with cake and french fries.

This takes me to why I hate WW. It makes me feel guilty. Yeah, there's all the talk about flex points giving you the ability to eat what you want... and talk of it being okay to eat junk in moderation. But it doesn't take into account PMS. Bad days at work. Potlucks. Lush-ism (NOT to be confused with alcholism). Things I run into on at least a monthly basis, if not more often. I *try* to be good, but damn it... when things go bad, you can find me at a burger joint, wolfing down a double cheeseburger with a large fry and a chocolate milkshake. Thinking "fuck it" all the while. And enjoying the hell out of all the calories.

Later, when I go to enter the points, the computer never fails to immediately start guilting me. It starts by putting my overeating numbers in red. Then, it begins commenting on "ideas for when you plateau" (ie - stop gorging yourself). Finally, it puts on my little graph the fact I didn't lose for that week. Sometimes I seriously expect a little arm to come out of the screen and squirt lemon juice in my wounds. When you enter a 5000 calorie meal, it should pop up with a short yes/no form: "Are you PMSing? Did you have a bad day today?" if the answer to either/both is yes, it should just ignore that meal. And send you flowers in the mail. Because THAT'S a diet I can get behind.

To Whom It May Concern:

Fuck you.

This is my new favorite quote, found on a t-shirt website. Unfortunately, I don’t have the balls to actually wear it. Or the money to buy it. Why does it amuse me so? Because if you think it concerns you, you deserve to fuck off. And if you know better than to think it does, well, then it doesn’t. So you’re safe. Moral of the story? Don’t take things so personally. It’s not about you.

Why the negative attitude? I’m not entirely sure, but I’m like 99% positive my job is killing me. I don’t have any solid proof – I can’t exactly x-ray myself and say “yup. There it is. The DHS cancer. Let’s remove it and make everything better.” However, I am pretty sure this job has morphed me from a fairly happy, well balanced person into a numb shell of a shmuck. A ‘sad sack’, as my friend Leah would say to my great amusement.

Let me back up. I’ve always been a sarcastic, “glass is half empty” kind of person. I don’t know why… but it’s how I’ve always been. I’ve always found humor in the dark side of humanity. I remember one time when I was about 8 years old, I was at a friend’s house and told this joke I thought was HILARIOUS. I don’t remember the joke now, but the gist of it was something about a beheaded woman in a river. My friend’s mom flipped out. Totally freaked. She told me it was so inappropriate and scorned me; she made me feel about *this* big. Needless to say, I think I saw that friend like 3 more times before her mom cut me out all together. It was the first time in my life I recognized something was a little different in the way I saw things.

My parents are partially to blame, I think. They are both wonderful people I wouldn’t trade for the world who did the very best they could with what they had. At times, of course, I didn’t see that, and still question some maneuvers, but realize parenting is a learning process. I love them even more for their mistakes and don’t get the chance to let them know often enough how much I appreciate them.

The reason? Let’s go back to the above assertion – my job is killing me. I have worked for Child Welfare for a hair over 5 years now. In intake for 3.5 years, screening for 1.5. For those of you who don’t know, screening is the unit that takes the reports of abuse/neglect and decides if they meet eligibility for assignment. Intake workers are the ones that – you guessed it – assess those reports. Let me give you an idea of what that workload looks like. There are 7 screeners currently. A conservative average estimate says they take 7 calls a day each. Sometimes its slow, sometimes we’re slammed. We’re looking at roughly 50 calls a day (or 250 a week). Of those calls, I’d say there are on average about 10 assigned per day (or 50 per week). There are currently 18 intake workers (including me). Again, sometimes its slow, sometimes we’re slammed. So… as a screener, you answer the hotline calls and listen to people report gnarly abuse. Over. And over. And over. Day in and day out. You kind of have to take it with a grain of salt and distance yourself from it. Depersonalize it, if you will. If you associate each call with an actual living human being; a child, nonetheless, you would literally go crazy. No joke. Complete mental meltdown from the daily vicarious traumatization.

How about intake? Let’s up it a notch. Not only do you have to hear about the alleged child abuse, but you have to see it. Over. And over. And over. Day in and day out. And there are all kinds of abuse. It goes beyond the hundreds of bruises and broken babies you hear about (and I’ve seen) – it cuts much deeper. To hold a severely emaciated toddler you just took from a home 4 feet deep in garbage, rotten food and feces everywhere is a totally different story. Or the brave 10 year old you have to watch relive the most traumatic sexual abuse imaginable while trying to protect their own modesty. The children who watch their mother get beaten every night and think nothing of it because that’s the way it is. The meth addicts who sell their food stamps for a high instead of feeding their kids. These are not works of fiction or stories made up; these are actual living, breathing families in our own back yard. And the scary thing? There are SO many of them. All over our county and our state. All over the nation. These issues are not unique to Lane County.

Sometimes, what's harder than seeing these kids is seeing their parents. Many of them have no idea the effect they've had on their children. Most are so far in denial about their issues, or blame others for their situations. Of course, I am the bad guy. My intervention is the problem, not the original presenting situation. They were doing just fine before I came along. Many people seem to have the misconception we just randomly knock on doors and accuse people of things. No one ever likes to consider there are people who worry about their children's situations and call us for a reason. Due to the resistance I face, I have been called pretty much every name in the book. More than twice. My life has been threatened. By credibly violent people. I have talked to murderers, rapists, thieves and dealers. People who have assaulted police officers. Our lack of protection (and lack of support) can be the topic of another blog, but suffice it to say when law enforcement wants to strong-arm people, they threaten to call Child Welfare. We don't have anyone bigger than us to use for leverage.

Having done this work for 5 years has changed me. Has made a dark mark on my soul. I know, I know… cue the dramatic violin music and light some “woe is me” candles. I’m not looking for sympathy – I write this with the sole purpose of getting it out of my head. Because it is killing me. I don’t need confirmation or recognition. Don’t get me wrong – it is nice and I will take it, but it’s not the point.

Writing about things is cathartic. I like to consider myself pretty articulate and like-able (I could be way off base, but…). However, there is something more permanent – as well as fluid – about writing things down. There is no misinterpretation, no trying to remember what was said, no discrepancy. Everyone gets the same information. It’s nice to be able to get things out of my head; especially when it helps others to understand where I’m coming from. What better way than to blog?

The problem is I’m lazy. I always have been. I’m all about going the extra mile for someone else, but when it’s about my business? I’d rather not. Again, I’ve always been lazy (the minimum is good enough for me!). But lately? Lazy doesn’t describe it. I think "clinically depressed" might be a better term. I have all the classic symptoms Here is a list I found online:

• difficulty concentrating, remembering details, and making decisions
• fatigue and decreased energy
• feelings of guilt, worthlessness, and/or helplessness
• feelings of hopelessness and/or pessimism
• insomnia, early-morning wakefulness, or excessive sleeping
• irritability, restlessness
• loss of interest in activities or hobbies once pleasurable, including sex
• overeating or appetite loss
• persistent aches or pains, headaches, cramps, or digestive problems that do not ease even with treatment
• persistent sad, anxious, or "empty" feelings
• thoughts of suicide, suicide attempts

Yeah, I have all of them. Except the last one. Ain’t no one getting rid of me any time soon – ‘specially not me. You better believe I'm going out in a blaze of glory. And hopefully not at the hands of one of my clients.

So… several of these feed into themselves and my lack of living in general. I hate making decisions. HATE it. I make life altering decisions every day for people. MASSIVE decisions. I don’t have a God complex, but I sure have a fuck of a lot of power in my job. Power I am neither qualified to have nor am I confident enough to master. So, after a day of deciding weather or not to break apart a family and put a child in foster care, the LAST thing I want to do is decide what to make for dinner. Honestly, the little decisions piss me off. The other thing I do all day? Talk to people. About life. So, when I get home, the last thing I want to do is call anyone and discuss… life. Mine. Let’s discuss how my situation is fucked up. Yeah… so not for me. Anyone who knows me knows I suck at phone calls. Because eventually, my two least favorite questions come up: “how are you?” and “what’s new?”

I can’t ever answer these questions. Why? Because I don’t know what to say. People who don't work in my job don't understand. I can explain it for hours, but they don't UNDERSTAND. Due to such, my best friends and support people are coworkers. They get it. They know what it's like. Others try (I do have the best, most supportive husband ever, but he can only help so much). So when people ask, I just answer the generic “things are fine” and move on. I don't bother explaining it. Which I think people mistake for me not wanting to talk to them. Which doesn't help my whole lack of communication thing. I don't call for weeks, then when I talk to people and they ask how things are, they get “things are fine.”

Now, I know what you're thinking. There is more to life than my job. My job does not define me. And there is and it doesn't.. Don't get me wrong. As mentioned above, I have the best husband in the universe. And the most awesome toddler who never ceases to amaze me on a daily basis. They are my life; without them, I have no idea who or where I would be.I can assure you, though, it would not be a good place. I also own my own home and have 4 kitties who worship the ground I walk on. However, I do spend on average 50 hours of a 168 hour week working. That is a third of my life. And another third sleeping (or trying to). When I'm not working, the stress I endure thinking about my job – did I make the right decision? What will happen tomorrow? Did I forget to call anyone? Will the paperwork get done on time? And on. And on. And on. It keeps me up at night. Seriously. And you can be guaranteed at any random moment, if you were to ask me what I was thinking about, the answer would be work. Even if I'm watching TV.

So... what to do? The easy answer would be “get a new job, dumbass”, which I'm sure many of you are thinking. It's not that easy. For many reasons. One, we are a single income household. We've talked about changing that many times, but have decided for now, it makes the most sense. My husband could get a job, but for now, my skills are much more applicable to the state of the economy (which we all know SUCKS if I wanted to find something else anyway). That and we would hate to put our son in a situation where we put him in daycare and my husband works just to pay the bill. That would be so stupid to pay someone else to raise our son. Oh, and have I mentioned we investigate all concerns reported about daycares? So you can bet your sweet ass after I've been out on all the “good” daycares in the area I'm keeping my baby home. Until he's 30. Forget school too; we investigate them as well. That's a whole other blog in itself. Suffice it to say he'll be home-schooled as well. Screw his social development.

Part two of the ongoing struggle is I make the most money in my field possible for this area. It isn't much, contrary to popular belief, but it's the best out there. And I have benefits; which is much more than most can say right now. I would have to take a pretty drastic pay cut to move on. Which isn't feasible when I'm the sole breadwinner.

Part three is that I really, truly to enjoy my job. And I love my coworkers. I will never, ever, find a better group of people who truly understand my personality and sense of humor. Because they have it too. I do very much enjoy the fast paced-ness of the job. I like that I'm not tied to a desk and I am free to work within my own schedule. I like talking to kids and having a positive change in their lives (even if it is initially for the worst). I like feeling important and needed (even if I'm constantly told the contrary).

But I don't know how much longer I can go on. Moving isn't an option right now for many reasons I won't bore you with. So, essentially, I am stuck. I'm trying to make the best of it. I'm very much an internalizer and tend to think about things and try to solve my own problems without burdening others. I've taken to talking more and asking for help. I think letting people know about the situation helps too - so people can know where I'm coming from and know when I don't want to talk, it's not about them. It's about me. As I said, blogging helps. I just have to find the time for it. Medication helps too, but I can't rely on it forever. You shouldn't have to take an antidepressant to go to your job. Nor should you have to pop a Xanex before Court, for fear you may have a nervous breakdown in front of the judge, attorneys, your clients and peers.

Mostly, being a CPS worker is a hell of a lot of sacrifice with very little reward. I'm trying to make the best of it with the limited tools I have. Humor and sarcasm are my main defenses. So, with that said... fuck you if you can't take a joke.

Here's My Boobs!

Well, not really. Sorry to the two of you who are disappointed. I just really, really wanted to title a blog "here's my boobs!" In honor of the dumb blond bimbo on the Girls Gone Wild commercial. You know, the one that comes on every break after 8 pm on all the cable/satellite channels? If you've never watched, you totally have to, at least to get the full experience of the ridiculousness involved.

It's actually become a staple saying around my house. Whenever one of Talbot or I do something stupid, I chime in with "here's my boobs!" in my 'dumber than a box of rocks' Valley girl accent. It's quite entertaining. I highly recommend it.

But then one has to wonder… why? Why does such a thing exist? And why do young, "cute" (I use that term loosely) twenty-somethings flock to the cameras? This question was floating through my mind last month too, when I was sitting at a strip joint in Portland (Happy Birthday Jess! Love you!). I was quite intoxicated sitting between two stages and having a philosophical discussion with myself (as everyone else was either too drunk or too… 'distracted' to converse).

So, there's always the arguments that I wish I could use – you know, "I'm proud of my body… I love the way I look…" blah blah blah. I get that. But REALLY. Why does such a thing exist? I get nudity for the sake of art. And I know there's a fine line between art and erotica. But pornography confuses me – as does stripping. Don't get me wrong… I'm not against it. In fact, quite the opposite. I just don't UNDERSTAND it. Prostitution, I get. It's a service rendered with an end purpose. But porn/stripping to me is like a tease. You don't GET anything out of it. You're left… unfulfilled. It's like dangling a sandwich in front of a hungry person (or a full person who ends up hungry by the time they see the sandwich).

So, how did it start? Where did it come from? Who does it? And why is it so damn popular? I guess I need to educate myself on the issue. Maybe I'll go back to school and write a thesis on the psychology of it all. But not from the "I was sexually abused as a child" angle – that's overplayed. And really, it doesn't pay THAT well.

Every stripper/porn actor I've ever seen appears bored. Out of their minds. Like they're thinking about what to make for dinner and are on auto-pilot. Like "thrust, thrust, spin… spread, moan, smile…" Because even if you get into it with the "I'm proud of my body" stance, eventually it has to get boring. And while I'm putting random thoughts out there…do you think porn actors enjoy sex with their partners? I would think it would be like any other job. Once you get home from a long day at work, the last thing you'd want to do would be, well, work. How about male gynecologists? Think they go down on their wives/girlfriends and go "bo-ring! I've seen THIS before!"

So, why? If anyone out there has any personal experience, opinions or ideas, I'd love to hear them. Or if anyone wants to debate the issue, I'm on a roll.

**As a complete side note, and only related because the blog is sorta about boobs, how do people feel about breastfeeding kids over the age of 1? Two? Three? Where does it become weird? I know what I think (having personal experience from being out in houses lately with women breastfeeding older kids), but want to know what the general consensus is out there. At least I know Lacey agrees with me.

The Photobucket Game ♦

This has been going around in several different forms. I copied this one from Cathy.

Here are the rules:

1. Go to www. photobucket. com. (Don't sign in.)

2. Type in your answer to the question in the "search" box.

3. Only use the first two pages.

4. Copy the html and paste for the answer.

5. Have fun.

(And yes, I cheated. I didn't stick to the first 2 pages on some of these).


1. What is your first name?



2. When is your birthday?





3. How old will you be on your next birthday?





4. What kind of car do you have?





5. What's your favorite color?





6. Who's your celebrity crush?





7. What's your favorite song?





8.What's your favorite movie?





9. What's your favorite animal?




10. What's your favorite food?




11. What's your favorite letter or number?





12. What are you most afraid of?





13. What do you want to be when you grow up?




14. What is your favorite time of day?




15. Who do you love most in life?




16. What is your favorite accessory?




17. What is your favorite hobby?




18. What is your favorite object?




19. What's the first thing you do in the morning?




20. One word to describe yourself

Only in Springfield

So, I came across the following article while perusing the news. And wasn't surprised at all that this is the brainchild of someone in Springfield. The good part about this is that the men in Springfield NEED to be neutered. The only thing better is having a round-up style clinic where they're all taken in and done for free. You know, like stray cats. However, I guess if you need an incentive to get men in to get them snipped, here it is.

Now, if they could only figure out how to do this in the south over NASCAR weekends... the gene pool would clean up itself and the national IQ would increase dramatically.

Clinic: Have Vasectomy, Watch NCAA Hoops

SPRINGFIELD, Ore. — For guys who park in front of the TV during college basketball's March Madness, the Oregon Urology Institute has a suggestion: Why not use that time to recover from a vasectomy?

"When March Madness approaches you need an excuse ... to stay at home in front of the big screen," the clinic's radio ad says. "Get your vasectomy at Oregon Urology Institute the day before the tournament starts. It's snip city."

Institute Administrator Terry FitzPatrick said men need two to four days to recover from the procedure — but not all take the time.

He's reserved a dozen appointment slots for March 19, the day before the first tipoffs of the NCAA Tournament, and another dozen for March 26, before the tournament's second week.

He reported filling 15 slots by Thursday afternoon and expects to fill all 24.

The sports radio station broadcasting the clinic's ads promises to send each patient a recovery kit of sports magazines, free pizza delivery and a bag of frozen peas.

Peas?

"The frozen peas are malleable enough that you can get them right in there and get the swelling down," FitzPatrick said.

The City - Parts I and II

So, contrary to popular belief, I don't get out much. I really don't. I used to go out all the time; 2 or 3 times a week when I worked my last job. Then I got into the job I have now and was routinely going out once a week (and occasionally twice). Some friendship crises hit and that crept to a standstill. And along came Keian, effectively killing any hope of a nightlife I ever had.

Since he's become more self-sufficient and things have settled a little around my house, I've been trying to get out more. I love going out. I love dancing and I love drinking; mix the two and, well, I'm there. I like closing out the bar; for me, there's really no point in going out if we're going home before 2 am.

I've been out maybe a half dozen times in the last few months. The problem I have is finding people to go with; there's only really two people I know at this moment who are willing (and able) to go out that late, and one has a broken foot.

The other problem I have is the guilt factor; granted, I don't leave until after Keian goes to bed, but I still feel bad about leaving Talbot home with him. See, Talbot doesn't like going out. He's not a party pooper by any means, but we are total opposites about how we like to spend an evening. He hates to (and honestly, can't) dance, and would really rather staple his scrotum to his thigh than go out and sit at a bar while I dance. He's also not a very big drinker and would prefer to sit at home nursing a beer and watching a movie than going anywhere. So, then I'm left with him feeling like I've abandoned him ("But do you HAVE to go out? Stay here with me instead – we don't get a lot of quiet time without the baby"). This is true, but my view is we have 6 other nights out of the week to hang out. If I stay at home, I'm always like "another weekend night I could have gone out. I'm not getting any younger…" I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't. It's hard to strike that "fair" balance.

Anyone who knows me knows that I love people watching. LOVE people watching. I could sit for hours and just veg out. Forget 'reality' TV; I'm much happier sitting at a bar/in a mall/at a park and listening to people and watching their interactions. Add alcohol to people and they become even more amusing. Add alcohol to me and hilarity ensues. So, you can see why I love going out dancing; a common place where everyone is drunk, where I can dance AND people watch. It's like my own personal heaven. Slightly voyeuristic, perhaps, but heaven nonetheless.

The problem with living in Eugene is the community is so small. Not like Cottage Grove, of course, but small. So, there are only 4 dance clubs really here right now. There used to be 5, but my favorite closed down around the same time as the friendship fiasco mentioned above (also aiding in the death of my dance life). Of the four left, one I can't frequent without a friend of mine who moved away (and is now lame anyway), one is a country bar (kill me now), and one they just made into an "18 and over" bar (who wants to dance with puppies?). That leaves one place to go; The City.

The City hosts a VERY interesting mix of characters. I mean this literally. It's like, imagine all the most colorful people in your life; put them all in a room together, crank up the crunk and start the party. The City's motto should be "We'll Take Your Ugly and Unwanted" or, "Gentlemen, Put on Your Beer Goggles". I know this doesn't say much about me, but hey. I gets 'em where I can gets 'em. That and, call me a stuck up bitch, but, it helps when you're in a room full of fugly people. Makes you feel cute in comparison.

So, I'm hanging out at The City last weekend with Cathy and Jerrad for her birthday/their wedding celebration (happy one week anniversary guys!). We're waiting for things to get going on the dance floor and having some drinks (and people watching, of course). Out on the floor is this older woman, probably in her mid-40s. Doing this dance. Now, I can't describe what she's doing, other than spastically moving her limbs in what appears to be a cross between a seizure and some sort of "free love" country/western hippie dance. Jerrad took the moral high road and stated she was doing her own "interpretive dance". Interpretive, it was. Just ask Cathy. I'm sure she'll blog about it too. They even got pictures.

Also that evening was this group of people who looked like they just graduated from a Community College hip-hop/break-dancing class. I swear they were out celebrating passing the class; they were out 'showing their stuff'. At one point, two guys got into a dance off. Yes, a good old fashioned dance off. You know – like Britney and Justin?? Yeah. It was special. One of them did the windmill, and in response, the other did the worm. It went back and forth like this for like 3 minutes. People were actually circling them, cheering them on. I felt like I was in middle school again.

Finally, who could forget the Bundy twins? Cathy will surely include them in her blog as well (again, they got pics). Two girls show up dressed like Kelly Bundy. Remember Married With Children? The dresses Christina Applegate wore? Yeah. Picture this; one of them in a red skin tight short dress with a gold belt and gold shoes; the other with a black skin tight short dress with a white belt and white shoes. It was a sight for sure. I had to drink just to ease the pain. I wish you all could have been there.

Ah… The City. I'll put up a Part II to this telling you about the experience I had the time before last when I was there. About how, no matter how hard I try, I can't get ever get away from my job.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------
I was on a roll. I had to keep going with it. Besides, it's slow at work.

So, I mentioned I can't escape my job, right? Well, I can't. It follows me everywhere I go. It's an unfortunate reality of this profession. I think I may have mentioned in another blog that I can't go to WinCo or WalMart without doing a quick self-reminder first. In my head I'm going "Please don't anyone hit their kids. Don't look in cars" over and over. I walk around looking at the floor in these stores. If you ever see me out and I look like I'm scrutinizing the janitorial crew's cleaning job, it's because I'm trying to avoid my own job.

This becomes a very interesting situation when I'm out drinking. As mentioned in my previous blog, I enjoy the occasional drunken debauchery. Particularly, out in the dance clubs. Apparently, so does my clientele. I have had 3 instances now where my work life bled over into my personal life in a not so fantastic way.

Back in April, I went to Taboo (when it was still a 21 and over joint) with some friends for a birthday party. I'd had a few too many (as usual) and get out on the dance floor. [Side note: thankfully, I've grown up a little, so my clothes were still on and I wasn't dry humping anyone on the floor.] I'm doing my thing when I get a 'tap tap' on my shoulder. I turn around and there is "Sharon" (name changed to protect her identity). Now, of course, I'm 3 sheets to the wind, so to speak. I had removed Sharon's son a couple of years back from her partner's care and she had to jump through the hoops to get him back. That was a very awkward moment, considering she at the time was 8 months pregnant and stone sober. Thankfully, she appeared more amused than anything. She made some comment about me having fun and spent the majority of the evening with her group of friends. She has since had 2 more boys and was looks good when I see her out and about.

When I was at The City a month ago, I got a two-fer experience that was too funny. I showed up a little early with a friend of mine, with the intent to meet a bunch of people later on. We got our drinks and a table and started amusing ourselves watching people. It's pretty early; like 10:00. Usually, the dance floor doesn't start picking up until 11. The only people on the floor are two girls who are grinding each other raw. Literally. It was pretty raunchy and I was kinda getting nauseated watching. So I started watching the people playing pool and hanging out.

Back in the back, this guy catches my attention. I realize who he is pretty much immediately; I had removed his baby from him and his girlfriend at birth. He didn't notice me (or, if he did, he did a good job hiding it). What got my attention was that when I removed his son 3 years ago, he was only 17. So, needless to say, I was curious what he was doing in a bar when he wasn't yet 21. I pondered this, and reflected a little on the case (the maternal grandmother ended up getting guardianship of the baby when mom absconded and dad admitted he couldn't care for his son).

Meanwhile, these two girls are still out grinding on the floor. My coworker/friend, Tina (name changed to protect the innocent), looks over at me and asks if I know the heavier of the two out on the floor. I look at her and am like "nope, sorry." Tina goes on this rant for like 45 minutes about how she SWEARS she knows the girl and it has to be work related. Did she do an assessment? An intern? A new hire? We couldn't place her. After awhile, the girl gets off the floor and comes over closer to us. I look at her and I'm like "well, she KINDA looks like Christina Jones (again, name changed to protect her identity), but I haven't seen her in like 3 years." Tina is like "no… that's not her" and goes about racking her brain trying to figure out this girl.

Awhile later, the girl comes over to Tina and goes "Hey! I know you!" to which they realize they know each other from daycare. Up close, I realize, yes, indeed, she looks a LOT like Christina Jones. Tina talks to this girl for awhile, then the girl gets interrupted by her friend. I poke Tina and go "who is that?" to which she goes "Christina Jones." At this time, Tina gets up to go get a drink. While gone, Christina's friend leaves. She notices me eyeballing her and comes over with a big grin on her face and goes "Hi! My name is Christina!" To which I go "Actually, Christina, I know you."

The look on her face. It was priceless. The smile fell, a sneer came over her and her whole body shifted as she took a step back. "Hi Enika," she said. It took all I had not to laugh; it was very comical. See, Christina was my first removal alone, after I "proved" myself worthy of making decisions in the field. The police had busted up Christina's place and found drugs and porno around her 4 children. It had been a LONG and bumpy road for her, but she had recently relinquished her parental rights on all 4 kids.

She proceeds to give me a spiel about how good she's doing and how she's been clean and sober for 3 years. It takes everything I have not to mention I had her case less than 3 years ago and she was using then, or the fact that she was standing in front of me drinking a huge glass of something fruity (which in my book does not constitute soberness). But, I bite my tongue and convince my normally-big-mouthed drunk self that it would be moot point and it was all irrelevant now anyway. I just smiled and nodded at her, let her go about confessing her sins, gave her a couple of "good jobs", then let her go back to her gnarly dance floor grinding.

I really try to maintain my professional life separate from my personal life. However, inevitably, they cross every so often. I just try to remind myself that people are people, despite their decisions they make or the paths they choose. And when the paths do cross, I try to do everything I can to maintain my sense of self and remind myself that it's just a job; it's not my life (even though sometimes it feels like it is).

Has It Been That Long Already?

10 years seems like a long time, on one hand. On the other, it's gone by in a flash.

So, Talbot and I went to our 10 year high school reunion on the 3rd of this month. We initially weren't gonna go, but then curiousity got the better of me. When people find out you're planning on going, there's ALWAYS two camps; the ones that are like "I didn't/won't go to mine and you wouldn't catch me dead there" and the ones that are like "Oh my GAWD! It'll be/was SO much FUN!" We were somewhere in the middle.

The biggest reason I came across for why people didn't/won't go to their reunion is because they don't feel like they've done anything to "impress" everyone else. Um, who the fuck cares what you have(n't) done? It's not a competition. And anyone who is there to compare themselves to everyone else needs to scrounge up some self esteem and grow a life. It's about seeing people you haven't seen in 10ish years and catching up.

The second biggest reason I came across is because people didn't care. Which I can respect. It's like if you haven't kept in touch for 10 years, why would you care now?? I get that. But like I said, curiousity got the better of me.

So, Talbot and I sucked it up, found ourselves 60 bucks (I know! Ouch!) and a babysitter and drove our happy asses to the Kennedy School. Needless to say, I was quite surprised by the whole thing. First of all, I was shocked to find that everyone had put on at least 30 pounds, and anyone with a penis had lost most (if not all) of their hair. I was like "Whew!" and quit sucking it in.

It was also quite interesting to find that people don't change. No matter how you look, how many children you have or where you work, you're still the same exact person you were in high school. Chances are if you hated someone in HS, you'll still hate them 10 years later. And if they were your friend, chances are, you'll still like them. However, for me, it was a little different. I found myself pitying the people I hated in HS... because they haven't changed. So, now, I was walking around going "Oh, look at so-and-so. They're still a bitch. How sad." It was actually quite liberating to pity the people I used to fear. It was almost theraputic.

I was also amused by the people that I talked to. I went in with a mental list of the people I knew were going who I wanted to talk to. Come to find out, I never really talked to any of those people. The people I talked to were the people I was acquaintances with - you know... the people who you knew, but didn't really consider friends? Or, you were friends with one year, but not the next? Those were the people I sat and shot the shit with. And had a lot of fun. The people I was friends with didn't seem to have the time of day. And honestly, that didn't bother me much.

The only thing I didn't like? It was too short. We got there at 7:30 and they shut the place down a little after midnight. I had just enough time to get a good buzz on - by the time I was ready to actually have drunken fun, it was time to go. So, leave it to my friend Cam, we went and played Shuffleboard for 2 hours afterward. And I kicked ass. Until the pros stepped in... but for a first timer, I did pretty good.

Overall, I would recommend going to your reunion if you get the chance. We reunited with a couple of people who we were really close with in both HS and college, but for whatever reason, we lost touch. We went out the night after the reunion and had SO MUCH fun. And I hope that we can do it again.