I'm so easy

We replaced the Problem Child this week.  I'm going to call her replacement The Adult.  The Adult is closer to my age, but she also is light years away from the maturity level of Problem Child.

She has demonstrated an eagerness to learn.  She is embracing the work we do.  And, I made her cry in her first week.  Sigh.  But, to her credit, The Adult pulled herself together, helped me fix the issue, and didn't decide that she must forever be a mean and nasty little brat as a result of her error.

This far in, a whole work week, I'm going to say I am thinking pretty positive thoughts about the newbie.  I don't think she'll ever be an ESK, but there is potential for at least coming in second.

I do feel a bit bad that she is getting thrown into the fire first thing.  But, it will be sink or swim, and sometimes that's the best way to embrace a new challenge.  Then, she have a couple of months of being able to breathe.

Now, if I could only get the other worker to act human, we might actually have something.

It changes you

25 years ago, I made a new friend at work.  Her mother died shortly after we met.  She grieved for her mother for a very long time.  At the time her mother died, she had one young daughter and 2-3 older children (I can't remember exactly how many kids she has, as I've not met them all).  She told me, years later, that one of the reasons she "spoiled" her younger child was because she felt she'd emotionally cheated the child because of her grieving.  She said she felt like she spent about 10 years of her life being a zombie.  She was going through the motions, but was emotionally disconnected.

Not long ago, one of my co-workers experienced what could only be described as a "freak out."  During her "freak out" she said LOTS of things (rapid fire, bouncing from subject to subject, sort of random) some of which wasn't true, some was exaggeration, some total nonsense, but some probably grounded somewhere in the truth.  The theme seemed to be that I am a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad "person."

Even though I could easily dismiss all of what she spouted as the product of a perfect storm of several very bad days, a couple of major screw ups, and personal issues, one can't completely forget such an attack.

Which has me thinking . . . I've found myself without friends lately.  Not the real friends .  .  . they still seem to think I'm worth knowing . . . but the more social/superficial friends seem to have decided to spend their energies else where.  And, frankly, I've not really been in the mood to go out of my way to be extra nice to anyone.

And then I started to wonder . . . has my grieving over the last three years (and the multiple hits of emotional firebombs) turned me into something of an emotionally distant zombie?  I suspect the answer is yes.  I'm not sure I actually want to do anything about it.  Although it was nice to have a lunch crowd, it was expensive. The feeling of belonging was cozy, but obviously temporary and fleeting.

Grieving changes you. I think I'm less willing to put up with BS and I have a shorter temper.  And, I should probably not take things so personally.  But, I think I'll concentrate on being grateful for the real, deep friends I still have.  At the end of your life, they are the ones that matter any way.

Juvenile delinquents

The Old Woman had particular ideas about how one ought to act.  She believed that one went out of their way to insure that company was comfortable and felt welcomed.  Alternately, she believed that if you were a guest in someone's home, you acted as if every detail of your stay was wonderful.  If the bed was lumpy, or the food terrible, you plastered a smile on your face and with all sincerity exclaimed your night to be restful and the host a skilled cook. (And, you never show up as a guest empty handed.)

She was also concerned that her children, and I, grow up to be contributing members of society.We were expected to devote our talents to the betterment of the planet.  She would not have tolerated any of us becoming petty criminals, felons, or politicians.

To this end, she had some pretty specific rules designed to insure that no child (or monkey) raised in her home should be a juvenile delinquent.

One rule was that the plastic containers certain foods came in were not to be on the dinner table.  Milk was generally poured into glasses and placed at the place of the person (monkey) drinking it.  If there were need for milk to be put on the table for second servings, it was always poured into a pottery pitcher or earthenware jug.  There was always a pitcher of ice water on the table as well.

And, the plastic container that margarine or butter was purchased in could not be put on the table.  Slinging the plastic tub onto the table demonstrated a lack of care and attention to detail that could ONLY end in switch blades, underage drinking, and running for public office.  She had a pottery dish that the tub fit into so that you could not see the tub.

She would probably be disappointed in the slovenly way I tend to my own table.  I do put a water pitcher on the table, but I also put the butter tub on the table.  BUT! When I do put the butter tub on the table (even the fancy butter from the local dairy), I always, and I mean ALWAYS, admonish the people (monkeys) around my table to not grow up to be juvenile delinquents.  There is a standard, after all.

Tantrum

The Old Woman would call it "cutting off  your nose to spite your face."

On the heels of my recent "fade away" from the SMLF, I've decided that I'm going to, in the most juvenile way possible, "test" the humans I surround myself with these days.  Basically, I'm going to stop being so freakin' eager to perpetuate the friendship. I'm polite.  I inquire after their families and do the chitchat thing.  But, they need to invite me to actual interactions, like lunch.  I'm feeling the need to have someone reach out to me for once, rather than act like the little brother begging to be included.

I know, the only loser in this game is me.  Although, I'm hoping in the long run I might actually be pleased to see that I am appreciated for my own monkeyness rather than simply one of the group you invite because you can't very well invite one person from an office an not the others . . . especially if you're eating in that office and food that monkey prepared.

So, I'm eating lunch alone a lot these days.  I did have a lunch invite from a friend this week.  Not one of the SMLF, but someone I enjoy conversing with on a regular.  So, it's not all navel gazing and pity parties.  Mostly, but not all.

Finally took the hint

For several years now, I've participated in a lunch group we call SMLF.  It has been said that I was one of the original founders.  I prefer to think that the group, more or less, developed organically.  At its peak, it was a loud, hilarious, fun group that got the members through many a frustration.  We supported each other.  We pulled together for the common good.  We were perceived as having power.  Hee hee.

But, members started taking different jobs and being less available for lunch.  But, we still managed to throw together a rocking baby shower for a member, recently.  But, I'd noticed something of a drifting.

Since the start of the year, I had really noticed that we hardly ever got together any more.  Even the mainstay members were unavailable.

Then weird things came up . . . like a lunch invite that was revoked 10 minutes later.  (The invite was initiated by one member, and then ten minutes later she claimed she wasn't in town and couldn't have lunch.  Very weird.)

Today, I was having lunch across town with an associate.  It's a restaurant the SMLF never goes to because it's so far from most of our offices, the travel time would severely cut into our lunch hours. But, then I looked up to find that the SMLF were having lunch.  I had not been included.   And I assume the choice of restaurant was to minimize the chance of me seeing them.

And, suddenly the weirdness of the past several months made total sense.  This is what they do when someone is no longer welcome . . . they just quietly stop including them.  FUCK.

So, tonight I removed myself from the spider monkey lunch forum list.  There is just a tiny bit of dignity in removing myself . . . after weeks of hints . . . than to go on thinking I'm part of the crowd.

I would like to know what transgression merited this treatment.  Was it the gifts I brought back from my travels? The many treats I've made? The birthday and holiday lunches and baby showers I've organized (and paid for) ?  I think the Old Woman was right . . . I try too hard.  No one likes the kid who wants it too much.  Only, I thought I was just being generous to my friends.  Silly monkey.

The very slow realization

Funny how friendships can end.  Sometimes, it's a big blow up with yelling and tears and lots of anger.  But, sometimes, it can be just one thing that makes you say "you know, I'm done."

I recently had a friendship end this way.  I'm sure we'll still be cordial to each other.  We'll be polite. Because that's what you do in a small town.

I'd made a comment that was intended to be funny.  I miss judged my audience and it wasn't funny.  The recipient's reaction wasn't completely unexpected, although one might say that perhaps a tad overblown.  But more than that, it made me realize that our friendship has been more about me walking on eggshells with them, and their response to my insensitive remark brought home that I'm tired of walking on eggshells for them.

Kinda a harsh realization, right?  Frankly, I'm thinking of it all more in terms of "you know, they've been pretty clear that they tolerate me because of proximity, but they'd never go out of their way for me . . . and I've gone out of my way for them plenty.  It's time to stop now."

More than anything, I'm a little embarrassed I was so slow on the up take.  Monkeys aren't real good at the nuances of human relationships, sometimes.  sigh.

Unrealistic?

I identified another one of those pesky little situations that triggers me being instantly distrustful and annoyed.
When doctors, or medical professionals, appear to have not read my chart.

Now, I got plenty of that with my last hospital stay and all the little baby docs who wandered in, having been told to "make rounds" while having no clue the specifics of my medical condition or treatment.  But, sadly, I didn't really put my finger on just how much it annoys me until yesterday.

Yesterday, I had a perfectly horrible, terrifying, stressful procedure at radiology.  But, to start everything on a sour note, they kept asking me questions that seemed to indicate they didn't really understand my unique needs/situation.

I talked to the radiology tech on the phone the day before.  I explained the arthritis as well as the wound vac and other issues impairing my mobility.  Then, when they get me into the x-ray room, one of the assistants asks me "now, why are we doing this procedure today?"  I asked her why she didn't already know, had she not read my chart?  The come back was something about making sure I understood the necessity of the test.  Well, then phrase it in a way that isn't so condescending.

Then, they got me up on the x-ray table, which was a feat . . . it was too high for me to comfortably climb up on, and there was nothing to grasp onto to allow me to pull myself up/over.  Then, just being completely flat on a hard surface compounded my discomfort.  They all disappeared for several minutes, adding to my anxiety.  Then, the tech I'd spoken to the day before comes whisking in and asks "what surgery did you have last month?"  Well, I understand that there are some procedures that are so routine that they have a name.  What happened with me was complex and doesn't have a name.  I admit, I was less that pleasant in responding.  Partly because I was very uncomfortable and becoming distressed but mostly because I felt like this was stuff they should have known, or been able to look up.

Then, they started the procedure. . . . which demanded that I roll over to a position that went beyond discomfort to pain.  Remember, there was nothing to grip or hold on to for leverage.  Part of the requirements of the procedure added an "extreme" factor to my discomfort/pain.  At this point, the doctor felt I should be able to roll over even more.  I could not.  He saw this less as a factor of the wound vac and more a factor of me being uncooperative.  We had several minutes of a very heated exchange, during which my discomfort grew and, yes, I admit, for emphasis, I used profanity.  When I was asked to roll over again, and I held on to the one thing in my reach that appeared to be a handle, he yelled at me (again) to not touch the equipment.  He also yelled at me for breathing heavily because I was in discomfort and pain.

Why do medical professionals think that telling a patient that is obviously stressed and in a high level of discomfort to "calm down" will actually result in actual "calming down?"

Part of me thinks he was unaware of the specific factors that limited my mobility.  But, most of me is outraged that he would treat a patient in the inhumane and vicious way that he did.  I have never reacted to a medical procedure the way I reacted to this one.  Part of it was the unique situation I find myself in, physically.  But I believe that the way I was treated pushed me far beyond what was reasonable.

But, what I hate the most is that although I know I was treated badly, I'm left wondering what I did wrong.

How you know the machines hate you

The Phenom has some luddite tendencies, except for checking sports scores and buying stuff (lots of stuff).  Although, he seems to appreciate the connection he can make with some of his friends through my grid, I think he'd give it up if he could or it suddenly disappeared.

Me, well, The Old Woman loved a gadget.  She often remarked that she wished that her mother had lived to see television because she just knew her mother would have loved soap operas.  The Old Woman always said that you should be open to new things, because you never know what your favorite is, unless you try as much as you can.  I generally apply this to new chip flavors.  But, I admit, I like a gadget.  Now, I did give up my smartphone because the ongoing cost didn't seem worth the hassle. But, I have the fancy kindle and a mini-laptop computer.  Plus, kitchen gadgets galore (including a molecular gastronomy play kit waiting for me to be back to myself for some foodie experimentation).

But, I also realize that the machines are some times out to get you.

I once had a car that only broke down when I was far from home.  Well, that's not true . . . the ONLY time it broke down in town, The Phenom was out of town and I found myself stranded at a car repair shop and no ride home at the close of business and we had no car rental outfits at that time.  Bastard car.

This wound vac attached to the gaping slice in my gut also hates me.  The night they set it up, it spent much of the time beeping at me.  Fortunately, we stayed an extra night in the hospital because it would have made me a nervous wreck if they'd sent me home . . . exhausted, in pain, and with some piece of machinery that was totally foreign to me that wouldn't stop beeping.  The next time, it had a full canister . . . at 3am.  I had to ease myself out of bed, rummage through the HUGE box of supplies and then flip through a large instruction book to figure out how to change it.

Last night, it decided it had a blockage.  I followed the instructions in the manual and it shut up . . . for a bit.  At 2am, I found myself on the phone with the home health nurse in a total panic (I do not want to have to return to the hospital).  Her solution worked and today the bugger has behaved itself (but not before causing a restless night of semi-sleep).

Just a few minutes ago, it just stopped making noise. (It is just about 1am as I write this.)  I turned it on and off . . . no luck.  I checked the canister and it was full, only the alarm to tell me it was full wasn't beeping.  I anticipated the new canister (after the last middle of the night change) and had it waiting.  It is humming along now . . . plotting its next middle of the night annoyance, no doubt.

Getting exactly what I want,

with maximum fuss.

Or, my first world problems.

This morning, I woke up about 20 minutes before my alarm was due to go off.  But, I needed to pee and 20 minutes is really miserable when you're fighting a bladder and wanting sleep.  So, I got up, went fast, came back to bed so I could recoup at least most of those 20 minutes.

When I got to bed, I realized Phenom wasn't up yet.  I convinced myself that I'd read the clock wrong and it must be 3:11 not 5:11.  YAY!!! TWO HOURS MORE SLEEP!!!!

And, in 20 minutes my alarm went off.  It's Thursday.  Phenom doesn't get up early on Thursdays.  GRRRRR

My brain said "I don't wanna go walk."  My brain said "we'll walk extra tomorrow." and after a few minutes, my reason overruled my brain, and I got up, got dressed, grabbed my phone and iPod to go walking.

Only to find it raining. Great.  I get to go back to bed . . . which is what I wanted, but now I'm fully awake and it's only 45 minutes or so from when I'd normally hit the shower.

So I read.  Which made me sleepy.  And I fell asleep 5 minutes before second alarm went off.

At least it's payday. And I work from home tomorrow.  And I have Monday off.  But, I still feel cheated.

Green Thumbs and fingers and toes

Several years ago, the Old Man pulled up a couple little blueberry roots for me to plant in my yard.  One survived, the other quickly died.  I replaced the dead blueberry, only for it to die on me too.  And, again, last year, I planted yet another "second" blueberry.  It survived the summer, but this spring was looking decidedly like dried up twigs stuck in the dirt while the original blueberry was leafed out and blooming.

I told Phenom I'd probably managed to slaughter yet another blueberry and to just mow it down.

UNTIL THIS WEEK!!!  And the darned thing has now leafed out.  Too small for blooms, just yet . . . but LEAVES!!! NOT DEAD!!!

Now, the fact it leafs out the week the other bush drops its flowers probably means having two is going to be fairly worthless (cross pollination).  BUT NOT DEAD!!!

I'm claiming victory anyway.

Grown Up

When I was a young monkey,  I thought being grown up meant you could have a coke anytime you wanted it.  It wasn't long before I came to the realization that being a grown up may, in fact, mean you get a coke when you want it, but it also means having to pay for it too.  Bummer.

Since my mood hasn't picked up any, and I'd like to stop losing friends at such an alarming rate, I'm taking tomorrow afternoon off.  Because being grown up means you can do that!

I have a lunch date with the Phenom.  Our local mexicanish restaurant has made a menu change towards fresher, less gringofied foods.  One of the things they now offer is table-side, freshly made guacamole.  They fix it in an over-sized molejete that has some critter's face on it and feet.  I call it a "pet guacamole."  We're totally going to have one with beers.

Then, I'm gonna go have my hairs groomed, er, done.  Perhaps this will buy me a few more days of being pleasant rather than poo-flinging.

Better

True story: several years ago, my SMLF pals decided we should open a craft store and call it "Faux Shizzle."  Because white peeps instantly think they are hip and cool if they adopt Snoop Dogg speak.

Today, I found gizoogle.  On the site, which is dedicated to helping folks translate Snoop Dogg speak, they have a site translator.  Yes! You can translate your favorite (or least favorite but oft visited due to various obligations) site into Snoop Dogg.

Of course, I tried this site.  And, was happy to see that my previous post "Dear Mr. Romney" was far superior in Snoop Dogg.  See. . . .

Every morning, I check mah "lyrics wit playas" game n' "facebook" while, um, attendin ta mornin needs. This morning, I saw a rap posted on FB dat elaborated on Mista Muthafuckin Romneyz recent commentz bout tha "gifts" Obizzay gave ta non-white n' lil' votas ta "buy" tha erection. Dude holla'd dat Obizzay gave up "free constipation" which was ghettofab wit lil' college aged dem hoes.

Then, I realized dat like Mista Muthafuckin Romney has never been up in tha posizzle ta know anythang bout contraceptives. Dude be a playa up in his 60s, n' mormon, hooked up lil' n' had only sons. Perhaps he never had ta learn tha mo' delicate details of, yo ass know, "down there."

First off, it aint "free" constipation . . . itz no co-pay constipation. That means tha "college aged women" whoz ass benefit from dis "gift" is either covered by school based and they muthafathas' insurizzle. So, game insurizzle g-unitz (you know, g-unitz yo ass probably have some investment in) benefit from no co-pay contraceptives. Even if they pay up mo' fo' tha prescription coverage, tha premiums is priced such dat tha g-unitz (and shareholdaz . . . yo ass know bout shareholdas, don't yo ass Mista Muthafuckin Romney?) cook up a profit.

But, yo ass know whoz ass else benefitz from no co-pay contraceptives? Young men. These days, lil' pimps is bombarded by a culture dat drops some lyrics ta em they need ta bust a nut on as nuff dem hoes as possible up in order ta be thought "manly." While they is hittin dat shizzle all up in becomin mature enough ta ignore these cultural lyrics, they surely aren't locked n loaded ta become muthafathas. But, not just lil' pimps benefit from no co-pay contraceptives . . . so do full grown adult men, hooked up n' not. And, lookin around tha shizzle these days, it would step tha fuck up dat gangstas whoz ass is screwin around outside they marriages, also benefit from no co-pay contraceptives.

Not just lil' pimps n' women, n' adult pimps share up in dis benefit. But, also hooked up couples. Hooked Up couplez whoz ass understand dat plannin they crews will help give em opportunitizzles ta give they lil pimps tha upbrangin they want fo' they children. Not havin ta pay dat $30 - $50 a month fo' pizzlez means mo' scrilla ta pay fo' yo' sonz trumpet and fill up tha mini-van fo' yo' daughterz bizzle crew tournaments. Additionizzlely, dem hoes whoz ass have just given birth benefit from no co-pay contraceptives cuz they understand dat spacin up they pregnancies is mo' betta fo' they game n' tha game of future babies.

So, Mista Muthafuckin Romney, fuckin shitloadz n' fuckin shitloadz of gangstas benefit from tha "gift" of no co-pay contraceptives. Which might explain why yo ass lost mo' than just tha lil' womens' vote.

Don't you love it too?  Of course, as far as Romney is concerned, this might as well be Korean.

Delightful reconsidered

So, like, there is the possibility (slim) that perhaps I'm not as delightful as I think I am.  Rocks my little world!

I admit, I stepped into a battle I probably could have just stayed out of and stewed over quietly.  But, I find that quiet stewing leads to resentments and grudges. . . and that's not delightful, damnit.

Last night, a facebook acquaintance had a complete melt down over how much he hates living in the south.  He characterized southerners, as a whole, as bigots and racists and stupid.  And, truthfully, who amongst us hasn't shaken our heads from time to time over the stupidity surrounding us?  But, I think the viciousness with which he attacked, and his continued comments just rubbed me the wrong way.

I slept on it, and this morning, I still felt the same way.  And, to illuminate my discomfort over his rant, another friend (an artist living in NYC) posted that his boss sent all of the employees home last night with the admonishment that they should stay indoors because the "black people are going to riot when Obama loses." 

I sent the Mr. Melt-down a private message (see, that was sensitive of me) to say that I found his blanket statements about southerners offensive and offered him the example of my artist friend's boss to demonstrate that racism and stupidity exist everywhere. 

Mr. Melt-down responded by saying "I don't like you.  Don't ever contact me again.  This doesn't change my opinion about the south, it is a horrible place!"

Frankly, this response was unexpected.  Honestly, and I don't know why, I expected some sort of half acknowledgement that perhaps not every living soul in the south is a racist and a bigot.  Not that I care if he likes me or not.  He just didn't play into the script I expected. 

However, I do believe that I wasn't entirely wrong to express my feelings in the manner in which I did . . . privately, respectfully, and without attacking him personally.  I guess when I become the Evil Monkey Overlord, I know who will be on latrine duty.

Just don't double it

Unless you really love fudge or have the Chinese Red Army coming over for reals.

I found a super easy looking recipe for fudge.  Well, found it in my facebook news feed.  Because, between liberal, navel gazing rants, I get recipes in my news feed.  Since I will be visiting various folks over the weekend, and it is considered Southern to bring a little token of appreciation for the folks who will be putting fresh sheets on a bed and washing extra towels for you, I made a double batch.  I cut 4 dozen bite-sized squares, and only used up half.  I think perhaps I didn't need to double it.

Peanut butter chocolate fudge.

Line a square baking dish with foil and butter the foil.

1 bag ghirardelli 60% chocolate chips
1 can sweetened condensed milk
1 1/2 cups mini marshmallows

Heat over med heat (you might want to turn it down some once the chocolate is melted so it won't burn), and stir pretty constantly until everything is melted.  The marshmallows will melt last and it will be very stiff and will require you to wonder why you wanted fudge so badly.  Trust me, it is worth it.  Remove from heat.

add 1 tsp vanilla
1 cup smooth peanut butter

stir until it's all incorporated.  (This will be faster and easier.)

Pour into pan, cool to room temp (about 30 minutes) and cover/pop in fridge for at least an hour.  Cut into small squares, or spoon directly into your mouth.

Commie

I suspect my neighbors think we're commies.  Largely, because we don't ever decorate for holidays.  No plastic inflatable cupids in the yard on Valentine's day.  No wreaths on the door at Christmas.  No flags draped over everything for the patriotic holidays.

Heck, this year a combination of low flying bats and the insanely noisy neighbors (children in pool + constant yelling at said children from adults) found us watching the town fireworks from the comfort of our couch, through the open back door.

I just don't see the point in putting the same decorations year after year, only to be pointed and laughed at when they then remain up for an inappropriately long time after the holiday.

And, I'd rather be thought of as a commie than outed as an escaped monkey.

Another example of how I do it all wrong

Yesterday, ESK and I took a few minutes to tour our local Hospice's Festival of Trees. ESK is one of those humans who usually really likes Christmas, and this year she isn't feeling it. I kinda worry that it might be my fault. I'm not really a Christmas sort of monkey. So, I've been trying to bring back her cheer. While looking at the trees, we realized that the way we would fail at decorating a Festival of Trees tree is that we'd decide that all the ornaments had to be handcrafted and we would spend hundreds and hundreds of dollars and every waking moment fashioning elaborate decorations . . . and our tree wouldn't stand out against the florist who wrapped his tree in 3 types of ribbon and stuck feathers in the top.

And, now NPR has given me another example of how I will never really be one of those truly successful humans (although, I've set the bar pretty high for monkeys). They ran this story about entertaining with Martha Stewart. Now, I can pull together a theme like no one's business. The thing that struck me is half way down the page. Go ahead, look . . . see the nativity scene? The one she crafted while in prison? The one that required her to go without comforts so she could buy the bits of clay she needed to create the nativity? Yeah.

If I found myself in federal prison for 5 months, I'm pretty sure I'd spend that time writing 15-year-old-girl bad poetry and crying. Not hand crafting a family heirloom that I'll later use to display in publications that will earn me thousands upon thousands of dollars as a show of my ability to survive and create something beautiful out of an experience most folks would never speak of again.

And, that's how I do it all wrong.