Fo' Shizzle

Hun and I returned on Saturday from a week-long respite in the Mile High City. It was loverly. We got to visit with friends and family, enjoy a couple of hikes, and received broad hints about how to build a fun-filled and fiscally secure future together from the afore-mentioned friends and fam. (Say that meandering sentence five times fast.) We also were force fed homemade ice cream. (The flavors were maraschino cherries with pecans, and Bing cherries with dark chocolate chunks--yum.)

Ten added pounds around the waistline later, I returned to work yesterday to discover I have now a caseload of one. (Hopefully my caseload will turn to two or--gasp--three bouncing teenage boys!!) Let the adolescent ennui begin.

All kidding aside, teenagers can be quite fun. I really like teens--they just don't seem to like me much because (1) I'm not hip, cool, or withit AT ALL, (2) I often get stuck telling them things they don't want to hear, such as "No, you aren't going home yet because the judge is being an asshole." and (3) I ask them to stop acting like teens and start acting like mini-adults because the county will kick their tuckus out of the system without a dime if they impulsively (imagine that for a teen) decide to sign themselves out of care because they aren't allowed to visit their boyfriend who is stationed in Bumfuck or the county declined to buy them an XBox 360 for their 18th birthday. I usually get a James Dean pout or Billy Idol sneer in response, attempt to encourage them to strive for bigger and better things, and shoo myself out the door before being conned out of more McDonald's outing.

I also dusted off a Pilate's DVD I got on hot-bargain special from Border's and completed a couple of workouts. Meanwhile, Hun has been playing Bioshock on his new XBox 360, and hasn't let me take a turn even once. (Insert Cyndi Lauper sneer or Paris Hilton pout here.)

Could my life get moore exciting?!

Fo' Shizzle.

The Great Crumble . . .

My life lately has been like a store-bought chocolate chip cookie. It's sweet at times and it peps me up and keeps me motivated. But sometimes, when I hold onto aspects of it too tightly, it crumbles in my hands.

The sweet things have been Hun and my friends and family. I am looking to traveling back to the homestead in a week. I even got lucky enough to see one of my best friend and her new cabbage a few weeks ago as well.

Hun performed well on a test for grad school. It opens a lot of doors for us, which helps all of us breathe a little easier. It is a bit stressful to consider what is next. But having too many doors to find out what is behind is a far better position than having doors slammed in our faces.

Work, however, has been better. I have discharged my whole caseload back to family. One set of kids were discharged home after a long stint in care. The family is getting extensive services after they returned home. I am keeping my fingers crossed that everyone does their bit and the kids aren't in a position to go back into care in a year. I advised a set of extended relatives to apply as kinship-care foster parents for the second set. The kids are flying out of state to live with them tomorrow. (We won't mention the circumstances surrounding how they got yanked out of their foster home. It was a sour deal, and I hate to say it--it was the right thing to do.)

It's strange, how tight I held onto those cases. I spent so much time holding those cases together, that I sometimes didn't allow myself to step back and see as much as I wanted to. On one case, I saw a lot of what was going on. On the other case, I saw what I wanted to see.

Now I have a caseload of zero. Summer is traditionally a slow month for kids being referred. We usually get more as the school year progresses and as the winter rolls in. I expect to have a new kid on my caseload tomorrow. Life changes, as do the seasons.

One of my coworkers said that we have these children for a season, and we do what we can to help them on their way to the next. I can safely say I did everything I could for one set of kids. I hope I did everything I could for the other.

Well, that's just how the cookie crumbles.

Thank You Very Much

Hun and I just returned from a short trip to visit the in-laws in the Land of Cleves, as my brother-in-law puts it, and we are now ten pounds heavier. We hit some weather on the way to Ohio and back. We enjoyed watching the last of the autumn leaves drop to the ground while driving to Ohio and the snow falling while eating out Thanksgiving dinner at Hun's aunt's and uncle's house. I visited with various in-laws and got to hold squiggly crawlers and discuss the fashion philosophies of Barbie to 4-year-olds. I also accepted that I am not nearly as cool as my sister-in-law when it comes to coloring, playing Barbies, or . . . well . . . anything and everything for that matter.

We are anxiously awaiting our trip to Denver to celebrate the Holidays and see actual mountains--rather than the hills they call mountains in New York. I don't know if I will get a chance to snowboard while in Colorado, considering the season hasn't started out well. At least they have snowboarding in New York. However, there is no comparison once you've ridden the champagne powder on the Colorado slopes. (Can I get more elitist?) But beggars can't be choosers. It's either snowboarding or starting smoking to catch some adrenaline rush. I hadn't hit the slopes once last year.

I also am remiss on updating my latest blogging project. I plan on making it more interactive, but have yet to figure out how to do it. People seem to be quite shy. I need to put it more out there. Perhaps I can film a vlog, capturing the opinions of Albany Christmas Shoppers about their first time being in love, or when they knew it was all over. Any suggestions are greatly appreciated. It's a work in progress. (Perhaps it's not as sexy as the mini-doc I did in grad school about the Vietnam War, but hey--I gotta start somewhere.)

I'm getting more random hits on this blog per day. I'm pretty sure all ten of them are my personal friends, and I'm upset they aren't more religious about checking my blog anytime I release my pearls of triviality to grace cyberspace. (I'm just kidding. You know who you all are, and you know I love you deeply. So quit frowning.)

It seems people have more of a penchant for personal tragedy--not too tragic, mind you. Something people can easily relate to an say, "Gee, that's a mega-heinous outfit/work story/cooking experiment. There but the grace of God go I, as I am intellectually superior/culturally savvy/street smart/really, really ridiculously good looking."

Another confession . . . I am super addicted to youtube superstar, William Sledd, of Ask a Gay Man. Some of his vlogs about his latest trip to NYC or drinking exploits on Halloween I could skip. But his hatred of painter pants and sweat pants is high-larious. You should check it out.

Hun and I finished watching Series 4 of 24, enjoying the Jack Bauer uber-manliness. I am very thankful of the series writers/producers for sequestering Jack's be-hated daughter, Kim, to Arizona to raise a family with the forgettable Chase. I'm a closet Chloe fan myself, personality disorder and all.

Wow. There is a whole lotta nothing going on with me. Umm . . . I'm done with Christmas shopping . . . I could talk about the mountain of work I need to do, but that isn't anything new or glamorous. I drove over 300 miles today for a work-related appointment. I have an adoption worker who is wanting me to make some serious custody decisions I know I have no authority making because she doesn't have the balls to make the tough call she knows she has to abide to for the betterment of the greater good and--oh ya--New York State child law.

Weehaw.

Betty

Christmas Cold

Well, I guess I am given a cold for the the Holidays this year. Not that's any surprise, considering I've climbed over a stress-hump at work and have a chance to breath and ponder my surroundings.

Hopefully I'll be mostly recovered next weekend. Hun and I plan on touring the City (note, the ONLY city for New Yorkers). We've been quite active lately as far as social plans are concerned. We were blessed with a housewarming by a couple of friends of mine from Colorado. They stopped by for a night or so, and brought their little nugget of joy. She is one of the most mellow baby I've ever met, well, like anyone, she got a bit cranky when she was hungry. It was also quite amazing how such a small package could create such thunderous farts. If the Department of Energy could harness that energy, we wouldn't need foreign oil. We thought Nugget was fabulous and we loved the company, as stressed out as Hun and I were.

We're missing all the White Christmas in Colorado this year. The state shut down for a few days. QT wasn't able to get a flight in time, as well as Nugget and her handlers, so will be spending the Holidays on the East Coast, all be they different respective places.

Well, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Betty

Hitting the Trail

Well, Folks, I'm on the trail to Albany. My folks and I have circled up in Pensylvania tonight, and plan on seeing Frank Lloyd Write's Falling Water in the morning.

I wish I could say I've made profound discoveries while on the road. Traveling often helps me in that regard. The only relevation I've made is that six hours of Soduko is a bit too much.

I had a whirlwind week of packing, tossing out worldly possessions, pre-wedding madness, wedding madness, and post-wedding madness. (I'll say this much, I'm glad I got my dress for 60 bucks on e-bay, 'cause--damn--I will not wear that thing again. Over half of my professionally applied make-up slid onto it before the cake was cut. Can we say, The Shroud of Tammy Fae?)

Anywho, as crazy as last week was, I had a blast (and a bit of a hangover). I also got to see some folks before riding out of town, such as the beaming bride (no blushing for her), my other close friends and their freshly hatched cutie. I cried off the last drizzle of make-up when I was holding Baby Mia in my arms at the wedding. I realized one of my best friends was now a mommy, one of my other closest friends was dancing with her new husband, and I was about to start a new chapter of my life with Hun.

As Morton's salt said, or was it Mahatma Gandhi, "When it rains, it pours."

If anyone has any job leads for starving social workers, please give me a heads up. So far, there have been few leads in the past couple of weeks. I guess I'll be writing a lot next week.

One Small Leap . . .

The countdown is getting lower. Only ten more days (estimated) before hitting my new homestead in Albany to reunite with Hun. Only five more days before hitting the road for the east coast with my remaining material possessions, my car with a malfunctioning driver-side seat belt, and my parental units in tow. Only three more days until one of my best friends gets married and becomes an official California Girl.

EEEEEK!!

I have been eagerly anticipating all these activities for the past couple of months. I've missed Hun something awful, and this phone relationship just isn't working. It's the natural next step, and I believe this move will be good for the both of us. We will learn to communicate and rely on each other on a deeper level. It will be a great opportunity for us to explore a part of the country we've had daydreams about moving to.

Although I enjoyed my job, I even knew it was time for me to move on. This move is another opportunity for me to stretch my feathers, perhaps give it a shot at a "regular" office job, whatever that means. Perhaps I can even humor my delusions of grandeur and try my hand at a writing group or do some minor freelance pieces. Perhaps I can get an apprenticeship at furniture refinishing, or a circus is looking for some entry-level tightrope work--where the wire is very, very close to the ground.

All of it is an opportunity for a fresh start, a chance to stretch myself, or repaint myself as someone more . . . well . . . interesting and glamorous, rather than the crazy-haired bitch my teenage kiddos on my caseload have grown to know and find somewhat OK from time to time. (If any of you know teenagers, especially teenagers who have been disappointed and betrayed by adults their whole life, this is heady praise indeed.) Not only that, but I've got Hun solidly by my side to boot.

Still, it's like when you jump off a diving board for the first time as a kid. You shiver in line and bounce back and forth on each foot to avoid getting your soles burned on the hot cement. Your buddies cheer you on, half of them have jumped a gazillion times before and the other half aren't allowed by their parents--but would be doing back flips if they could (ya, right). The diving board even urges you to jump--swinging up and down as your toes dangle from the edge and you hands are balled up into tight little wads at your side. Although the water beacons you, your buddies assure you chances of death are slim, and deep inside you know jumping off that board will be the coolest thing ever--the board looks higher standing on the edge of it than as a poolside spectator, and the deep end looks . . . well . . . deep.

Only the puss-faced and pushy thirteen-year-old, who happens to be next in line, starts pounding on the board with his humongoid feet, creating a veritable tidal wave of motion at the end. You call him an asshole (hoping your mom isn't around to hear) and tell him to stop. He, in turn, calls you a pussy and tells you to shit or get off the pot. Well, you're definitely not a pussy and you've been potty trained for years, and not no one if nobody is gonna tell you you can't do nuthin'. You turn around and tell him to shut up, little 'splode-o-face diaper boy, and slip off the board.

Your friends cheer, you're grinning so hard you can barely see. It was the coolest thing in the world. You swim to the middle of the pool, knowing the only thing the teenager can do is frenetically splash water around and barely make it to the nearest ladder, much less chase you down to throttle you. Hee, hee!

Well I have no acne-prone teenager egging me on. All I have are my friends who back me, the promise of a new beginning, and--most importantly--Hun by my side. As scared as I may be facing the abyss, I need to bolster my faith that my future will be the coolest thing ever.

Clarifications and Corrections

For the clarification and the edification of all four folks who read this blog on a regular basis, Hun pointed out some items in previous posts that might be misconstrued.

First, Hun--as I call him--is short for Honey, and should not be mistaken for a fellow tribesman of the Asia Minor conqueror, Attila. His personality resembles that of honey, rather than a ruthless warlord. Hun is very sweet and he doesn't ride bareback to class, brandishing a blood-stained sword and clad in animal skins. I also have faith that Hun showers regularly--however, I have no first-nose knowledge since our temporary separation.

Second, I chose Hun over Hon for phonetic reasons. Hun sounds more like hun-ee, and Hon sounds more like Han Solo. Although, I don't think I would be writing such a lengthy clarification if people mistook the nickname as a reference to the space cowboy in the original Star Wars trilogy. He would think it was cool.

Also, Hun decided not to attend the stoplight party. First, he thought the whole red-yellow-green dress code was creating a meat-market tone to the whole affair (no pun intended). Second, he would go crazy, too, if he knew I was at some petting party, slightly veiled as a school-sanctioned gathering.

Hun thought my jealous ravings were sweet. However, he envisioned himself exchanging body shots with Neve Campbell, rather than Naomi Campbell.

Whatever.

It's all the same soup to me.

Winding Down of Slurpee Season

Leaves hint gold along the edges, sweaters slowly creep out of storage, and cats snuggle more on their human heaters. As much as I enjoy the crisp air and hot cocoa of fall and eagerly anticipate kids running around in Halloween costumes, extorting candy from strangers, I feel a slight melancholy as mid-afternoon Slurpee runs dwindling down to a trickle.

A 7-11 is a quick jaunt away from my office. On the rare days I'm sitting at my desk, returning phone calls and catching up on paperwork, I get an urge to be anywhere other than where I am around 3 pm. I notice smudges on my computer screen, my feet start dancing on their own volition under my desk, and I even consider--horrors of horrors--shifting my heaps of paper into orderly skyscrapers to avoid writing one more word. Then, a flash of hope crosses my mind: this is a great time to walk down and get a Slurpee.

Inspired by the Hope of the Slurpee, I trudge on through even a couple of reports or a few more notes, poll the office for any cohorts and take orders to bring back. My therapist friend and I grab our refill cups and we scoot out the door, feeling a little more free. We hold a quick bitch session, and we swelter in the summer heat walking through nondescript parking lots, under a highway overpass, and across the street. No matter the heat, we always walk. . .

As we enter the air-conditioned oasis that is the 7-11, we glance over the flavor options and test the spouts for consistency. (There's pina colada, but it spits mostly water. The cherry seems to have the best icy smoothness. The "diet" is always out of order.) We then spend another five minute pounding the air out of our cups and filling them again to the top. The Slurpee keeps me going the rest of the day until I go on a late home visit, or just go home.

Now fall is in creeping around the corner and summer is slipping away, folks are more inclined to coffee and driving than Slurpees and walking. I'm also the third staff member to leave in a couple of months. My replacement has already headed for the hills before she even walked in the corral.

Most importantly, I don't think any of them could ever truly understand and appreciate the art of the Slurpee. But my time is limited, and I am ready to hit the trail.