I Love My Mom

This morning, my uterus tried to kill me.  Over the years, I have come to the unfortunate realization that my reproductive system apparently was constructed by Satan himself.  And Satan, who seemingly is particularly cranky during the Christmas season, thought it would be a very funny thing indeed to give me the gift of menstruation during my Christmas vacation to my parents' house, and just for extra giggles, he decided to make this month extra super duper torturous by sending his minions to do this:

After four ibuprofen failed to make a dent in my crampage this morning, and because I was in so much pain I could hardly move, I texted my mom, who was downstairs, and asked her to please bring me some bread, water, and more pills.  She came up right away with everything, and as soon as she was in the room, I burst into tears.  You'd think that the mother of a 36 year-old wouldn't have to deal with owies and tears anymore, but clearly that's not the case.


After I calmed down, my mom let me know that, right before she'd received my text, she'd gotten a phone call from my sister, who was in the living room, asking her if she could please bring her a warm washcloth.  Considering the methods we were utilizing to contact my mother, one might believe my parents dwell in a palatial estate, but actually the only thing between the family room (where my mom was) and the living room (where my sister was) is a hallway.  However, at the time of the phone call, my sister was in the process of nursing her newborn son, so she wasn't exactly mobile.  That hallway might as well have been the size of Canada.


All of this is to say that my mom, who has a terrible cold, spent her morning receiving calls and texts from various rooms in her house and then dashing from room to room, saving her daughters.  That is because my mom is a hero.

Here she is flying up the stairs with water, bread, and ibuprofen

If I were to expound on everything my mother has taught, told, or done for me throughout my life, this post would be 10 million words long.  How could I explain everything someone who has loved and cared for me unconditionally for almost 4 decades has done?  Suffice it to say:  if it weren't for my mother, I would be dead thousands of times over, and if I weren't completely dead, I would be utterly physically, mentally, and/or emotionally deranged.


When I trained mentors for children in foster care, I told them that all children need and deserve unconditional care, and the way I defined that for the trainees was:  the kind of care a person can take for granted, knowing that it will always be there.

Yup, that pretty much sums it up

I'm sorry to say that I know I've taken my mother's care for granted plenty of times over the years, but that's just because she's so damn good at being unconditional!  So I blame her.  


Okay...not really.


I'd also like to take this opportunity to give a shout-out to my dad, who did me the great favor of going to the store today and making his first ever, after 68 years of life, purchase of a box of tampons.  Thanks, Dad!

Here are four of my favorite living creatures on the planet

Blog Block

I think I may have run out of things to say, or perhaps just the will to say anything.  Since I hit my one year anniversary, I seem to have come down with a severe case of Blog Block.  Occasionally I'll get a flash of potential subject matter, but soon after the flash, negative self-talk begins.  My brain tells me things like:

• That's dumb.
• No one cares.
• That'll be complicated to write.  You don't have the skills.
• You should just watch another old "Lost" episode and go to bed.

I believe this type of thinking is indicative of the fact that I am entering, or have already entered, a state of dysthymia.  To those of you unfamiliar with that term, dysthymia looks, and feels, much like this:

Apparently, Dysthymia is also a defunct, Icelandic metal band.  Who knew?

Essentially, dysthymia is low-level depression.  Everything that a dysthymic person perceives is filtered through a lens of general cynicism and despair.  When one is in this state, friends seem like acquaintances, acquaintances seem like strangers, and strangers seem like enemies.  Nothing is particularly good, and most things are potentially awful.


Several years ago, my husband had an interaction with a stranger which perfectly illustrates dysthymic perception.  He went to a beach in Santa Cruz and was staring out at the ocean when another man walked up and stood by him.  They stood in silence for a few moments before the man said, "The ocean is filthy.  It's completely full of shit.  Whale shit, human shit, bird shit, fish shit.  It's just a giant toilet bowl."


Some people look at the ocean and see a beautiful, majestic, supremely powerful entity.  Their perception of life changes as they stare out at a seemingly endless, timeless body of water.  They feel insignificant and powerless, yet simultaneously serene and enamored by the beauty of this planet.

Apparently, other people look at the ocean and see this:

Those people are experiencing dysthymia.  And so am I.  I intend to be over it as soon as possible.

Yay For Me

So first of all, I just need to say that I already wrote this fucking post.  Yesterday I wrote the whole thing and saved it as a draft.  Earlier this evening I was simply taking a final look at it before pressing "publish post," but then I decided I wanted to alter one image, so I selected the image and hit "remove image."  However, instead of removing that image, the entire post deleted itself and then saved itself immediately in its new, completely blank form.  I guess I should have specified that "remove image" meant "remove this particular image that I have clearly selected" rather than "remove image, and by image I mean the entire fucking post."


FUCK.


Okay, time for the recreation process.  Have you ever written an entire paper, lost it somehow, and then had to go through the mental exercise of deciding that the next draft would be better?  Yeah, I never believed it, either.

Today is If Satan Were Anal Retentive's one year anniversary.  Fweet!  Let the party begin.


The last year has been eventful.  I returned to kickboxing after a yearlong hiatus.  I became a volunteer dog walker at a local shelter, making the transition from volunteering with humans, which I did for 10+ years, to volunteering with dogs.  This was a stellar move.  Plus, I became an auntie.  All of these things have been quite cool.


I have also come to a couple of critical realizations over the past year which may or may not have serious implications.


Realization #1:  I am currently that adult who, when entering a classroom after being away for a brief period of time, causes an immediate hush to fall over the room as students quickly and guiltily return to their assignments.  Yup, that's me.  It is so disturbing.  Students also ask me if they may be permitted to go use the bathroom.  I cannot even begin to explain how weird that is.  I have been granted the authority to dictate if and when young people relieve themselves.  That makes me feel like this:

Sit down!  Shut up!  Memorize your multiplication tables!

I am not a teacher, but apparently I impersonate one at my workplace.  I suppose that, through the eyes of students, any staff member at their school is a "teacher."  All school-dwelling adults guilty of the crimes of attempting to impart knowledge and maintain some semblance of order and productivity are smacked with the label "teacher."  However, I'm not a teacher.  I've never wanted to be a teacher.  Hmph.


Historically, whenever I've left a job, it has been with a list of prerequisites for my next job.  For example, when I retired from the domestic violence field, it was with the understanding that none of my future job titles could contain the words abuse, violence, or assault.  My latest requirement for future employment is that I will in no way, shape, or form be responsible for other people's toileting practices.  You wanna go pee?  Go pee.  I don't want to be involved.


Realization #2:  Despite the loveliness and many fine qualities of this city, I am not a Portlander.  I know one of the things that attracted me to Portland is that it has a dark edginess about it which I appreciate.  However, what I've realized over the past few years is that my darkness, which is anger-based, actually isn't a fit with Portland's darkness, which is melancholy-based.  And while I do realize that anger is something people use to cover up uncomfortable, gloomy feelings like overwhelming sadness, I think the reason people do so is because sadness is...well, a total bummer and really fucking depressing, while anger generally feels, if not particularly good, at least pretty powerful & cool.


In short, currently I feel like a Pantera Girl living in a Morrissey World.  For you visual learners out there:

This is me

...and

This is Portland

Well, there's my year-in-review analysis, folks, and I'm stickin' to it.  I look forward to bringing you all plenty of additional non-magnanimous ranting throughout the coming year, or at least until 12/21/2012, the world's scheduled date of implosion.

Missing The Pit

I cannot remember how old I was or what band I was seeing when I experienced my very first mosh pit.  I can be certain, however, of the following:


1. I was with my friends Laura, Becky and Jill;
2. At least one of us ended up bleeding;
3. Laura got trampled by the crowd at some point; and
4. After the show, we went to Bickford's and drank about a gallon of coffee.

Oh, Bickford's.  You were so depressing and so magical at the same time.

Wherever and whenever that event took place, it was a defining moment in the life of teenaged Al.


The other night my husband and I went to see a high school production of Macbeth, set in modern day Portland and centering around the Occupy movement.  (I feel like I should follow that statement with:  Please shoot me in the face, but it was actually quite good.)  Between scenes, to capitalize on the angsty feeling of the play, they played snippets of 90s grunge tunes.  I wondered why the high school students hadn't chosen current angsty music from their own time, like Lamb of God or some crap like that; instead they played Nirvana, Jane's Addiction, Alice In Chains, Soundgarden, etc.  This music brought back a flood of precious memories of the days I spent as a pit-dweller and the friends with whom I shared those violent and wonderful times.


Moshing was perfect for me for two reasons, other than the simple fact that it's what was happening at all the shows I went to in my teenage years.  First of all, the experience was a relentless release of pent up frustration and rage, which melded ideally with the late stages of puberty.  Secondly, moshing gave me an opportunity to spend time and bond with huge groups of my peers without actually having to talk to them.  That meant I could have a wonderful time with lots of people without the distraction of having to hear anything that came out of their mouths other than, "WOO!" and, "YEAH!" and, "THAT FUCKIN' ROCKED!"


My parents were remarkably cool about my moshing obsession.  When it came to my sister and me, they seemed to have an "if they're not dead, in rehab, or incarcerated, we must be doing something right" teen parenting philosophy that worked really well for all of us.  I remember one morning after a particularly explosive concert, I was sitting at the kitchen table and noticed my mom eying me curiously.  After a few moments, she informed me that there was a boot print on my face.  I went into the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and saw this image, stamped very clearly through a purple bruise, on my cheek:

It was so awesome.  It was also not the last time that very thing happened.  Since I was usually one of the tallest people in the pit, I frequently got kicked squarely in the face by crowd surfers.


When I was about 17, Mike Barnicle wrote an article in The Boston Globe slamming moshers and the whole mosh pit scene.  I wish I still had a copy of it for citation purposes, but unfortunately it was reduced to ashes due to the flames of rage that burst forth from my eyes when I read it.  Essentially he wrote that young people in mosh pits were stupid, crazed lunatics who were so useless to society that they should've been thrown to the wolves to help invigorate the failing wolf population.  He also said that it was his goal to cleanse society of anyone not like himself and just have a whole nation of little Mike Barnicles running around, being hateful and judgmental to anyone not Mike-Barnicley enough.  Again, I don't have the original article, so I can't provide exact quotes, but it was definitely something like that.

Writing Mike Barnicle a letter in response to his stupid article was my very first exercise in diplomacy.  What I wanted to say to him was, "You are a dumb fuck who doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about so shut the fuck up you fucking fuckhead."  But even way back then, I realized that taking that approach would not be very effective, so instead I wrote him a letter explaining that moshing was a positive thing for young people in that it built community, allowed for a release of anger, and taught people how to look out for each other.  [Case in point:  more often than not, I would hear someone yell, "Look out!" about a nanosecond before I took a boot to the face.]  Mr. Barnicle never responded to my letter, but it didn't matter.  I'm sure his response would've been annoying, anyway.


I don't think people should feel entitled to blatantly judge cultures with which they have absolutely no experience, unless, however, that culture is the current teenage vampire culture, because actually believing you're a vampire, wearing fake fangs, biting people, and drinking their blood is wicked fucking stupid.  [Right now I'm reminding myself of the time I was questioning the logic of my husband's fear of bridges while simultaneously attempting to justify my fear of clowns.]

See?  Clearly this thing is pure evil.

Strange as it may seem, I miss those long gone days and nights of black eyes, bruises, stomped friends, bloody noses, hands full of the stinky armpit hair of crowd surfers and boots flying into my head.  However, I know I will never be able to recapture those days for 2 primary reasons:

1. The friends I used to mosh with now send me pictures of their children waiting for the bus on the first day of school; and


2. If I came upon a huge crowd of sweaty, stinky, stumbling, smashing bodies, I would certainly not throw myself into it.  Blech!  Pew!  Yes, there was a time when that was very fun for me, but that time has passed.

This is more my speed these days.

Maintain Who?

I recently facilitated a closing ceremony for a group of young women who had just completed the Women In Construction program at my school.  Every three months we enroll a new group of students, and the women who are joining the school's construction program begin a week earlier than other students so they can become familiar with basic construction tools, practices, culture and protocols before the male construction students start.


To begin the closing ceremony, each participant was handed a piece of paper that was folded into three parts and then given these directions:  in the first section, write a commitment you're making to yourself.  In the second, write a commitment you're making to the group.  In the third, write an old habit or belief system that you want to eliminate from your life because it does not serve you.


I shared my examples first to demonstrate the process to the group.  My commitment to myself was to maintain hope.  My commitment to the group was to notice whenever they are doing well & make sure to point it out to them.  The thing I wanted to get rid of was cynicism.  After I shared these commitments with the group, I tore off the third section of the paper and set it on fire.  When I could no longer hold the burning paper, I threw it into a metal can.


The other participants eagerly completed their papers and began sharing their commitments and stories one by one.  As is always the case in these types of situations, I was blown away and humbled by their candor and strength throughout the process.  One participant showed up late and asked if she could reuse someone's paper so she could participate in the ceremony.  I gave her my paper, and she wrote her three commitments on the back, shared with the group, tore off the third section, set it on fire, and threw it in the can.


At the end of the ceremony, one of the young women looked into the can to see what remained of the several papers that had been thrown in.  She remarked, "Wow!  There's nothing left!"  Then she looked more closely and said, "Oh, wait - there's your 'maintain hope'!"  She reached into the can and pulled out the torn, burnt remains of the commitment I'd made to myself, which had been written on the back of the section of paper that the final participant had burned.  The young woman handed me the paper with a big smile.  With the tears and burns, the paper now looked more like it said:  Maintain Hooo.

Now I keep that little scrap of paper on my desk.  I look at it daily to remind myself not only to maintain hope, but also about the reality of how difficult it can be to do so.  Though life rips, scours and singes us with its realities, we still must do our best to thrive, grow, and avoid despair.  That's what my students do, and they've been through every struggle imaginable.  Each day I look to them, and to the "maintain hooo" commitment, in my ongoing efforts to burn away cynicism and move forward with faith in the power of positivity.  


My goal is to replace cynicism with cautious optimism.  Wish me luck.

Queen Rando

The other day I met with a student who is so incredibly passive and shut-down that he hardly seems to notice his own existence.  Because I'd had a really exhausting week and was approaching a state of full-blown compassion fatigue (the newfangled way for social servants to describe what was formerly known as burnout), I was particularly frustrated by his indifference and complete lack of self-awareness.  At one point during our meeting, he informed me that he didn't know what his own feet look like.  And here is what I said to him:


"You don't know what your feet look like?  What if there were some crisis where everyone had their feet taken off and put in separate boxes, and then you had to search through all of the boxes to find your feet?  What would you do?"

Hmmm...are those my feet?

Because this young man has known me for over a year now and therefore is used to these absurd hypotheticals, he responded, "I'd take someone else's feet."  To which I replied, "That wouldn't work, because we need our own feet to balance us!"  And he said, "No, I'd be able to balance on someone else's feet."


Thankfully, I was able to stop myself short before countering his argument, as I realized I was power struggling with an 18 year-old about a completely nonsensical eventuality that I had put forth in the first place.  But here's the thing, folks - I do that sort of thing all the freakin' time.  I am the Queen of Random Absurdity.

This is my mascot, Gir - an alien robot in a dog costume

One of the first times I remember resorting to a ludicrous conversational insertion was during college.  I was feeling sad and lonely and was talking on the phone with a dear friend of mine, who, in an effort to counter my state of self-loathing, reminded me that she loved me.  Then we had this exchange:


Me:  Do you really?


Friend:  Yes, I do.  I love you so much I would kiss you.


Me:  You would?


Friend:  Yes, I would.


Me:  Would you kiss me even if my mouth were a gigantic eyeball?


Friend:  [silence]


Me:  [expectant silence]


Friend:  [more silence]


Me:  [slowly-becoming-anxious silence]


Friend:  Yes.  I would kiss you even if your mouth were a gigantic eyeball.


So that was nice.  But why, WHY would I make my friend speculate about that eventuality?  Why the fuck would my mouth ever be a gigantic eyeball?

My friend is clearly a better person than I am.  I would never kiss that.

Several years after that bizarre conversation, I was talking to another friend about balance.  He said that he considered himself to be a balanced person (which, in my defense, was a completely inaccurate statement, but there are normal ways to challenge people's flawed self-perceptions).  In response to his assertion, I informed him that he was, in fact, as balanced as a seesaw with a hippo on one end and a chicken on the other.  Then, to illustrate my point more clearly, I supplemented my comment with this lovely drawing:

Unfortunately, I don't just say and draw stupid things.  I also do them.  Case(s) in point:


I used to receive a Sierra Club calendar for Christmas every year.  About 10 years back, after I got my calendar for the new year, I took my old calendar off of the wall and went through the two calendars month by month so I could transfer people's birthdays from the old calendar to the new one.  After completing that task, I hung the old calendar back on the wall and promptly recycled the new calendar.


On another occasion, I was attempting to organize myself financially (i.e., pay bills; record receipts; balance my checkbook) and, at the end of my organizational venture, I ended up writing a check to my credit card company for the balance of what was (supposed to be) left in my checking account, rather than the $125 or whatever it was I owed for the month.  For the next couple of months, I had to put every purchase on my credit card, because the credit card company had all of my money.

Although I suppose there are dumber things I could've done...

Considering what a total weirdo I can be, I am very grateful that I found a partner who can tolerate my randomness.  In fact, he flows with Queen Rando like a sailboat cutting through smooth water on a perfectly breezy day.


My husband and I met as housemates.  We lived with a woman who, for the sake of anonymity, I'll refer to as Zuno.  One night while my husband (who was still just a housemate, and who I'll refer to as Joe Rodeo) was out, Zuno and I had a talk about how incredibly flexible he is and his ability to just go with whatever is presented to him, even if it doesn't really make any sense.  Later that evening, I told Zuno a story which concluded with the line:  "That's what happens when you put a bunch of monkeys on an island."  That silly line inspired us to try a little experiment:  the next time we were chatting with Joe Rodeo, one of us would insert that line into the conversation to see how he would respond.


The next day, the three of us were sitting around chatting, and this conversation ensued:


Joe Rodeo:  But we all got back okay.  So it turned out fine.


Me:  Well, that's what happens when you put a bunch of monkeys on an island.


Joe Rodeo:  (emphatically) I know.


[Dramatic pause & exchange of bewildered looks between Zuno & me]


Zuno:  Wait...what?


Joe Rodeo:  What?


Zuno:  What do you know?


Joe Rodeo:  That that's what happens.


Zuno:  What's what happens?


Joe Rodeo:  That's what happens...when you put a bunch of monkeys on an island.


Zuno:  But what are you talking about?


Joe Rodeo:  I don't know.  What are you talking about?


There ya have it, folks.  Therein lies the catalyst for the lasting bond between Al Etreum and Joe Rodeo.


And in conclusion:

Awwww...

That's what happens, y'all.  Monkey-dove love.

East vs. West

Um...I think those arrows might be backwards

I am an American Coastal Hybrid.  I was born in New York, grew up in Massachusetts, spent two years in the Florida Keys, then ten in California, and currently live in Oregon.  This means that, as an American, I am all mixed up.  For example, by the time I got to California via Massachusetts and Florida, I found myself making comments like, "Y'all are wicked stoked," which led to many raised eyebrows and episodes of snickering at my expense.


Over the past several years of life as a coastal nomad, I have noticed many differences between the attitudes and actions of East and West Coasters.  The first time such disparities came to my attention was soon after moving to Santa Cruz, California, when I crashed into a crippling depression and took myself to a book store to sulk, pout, and pretend to look at books.

Wah.  Life is dumb.

While I was sprawled across an aisle with books spread out all around me, I heard a voice behind me say, "Excuse me?"  I then noticed the huge blockade I had created and began moving books so the person could get by.  Then the voice said, "No, I just wanted to see if you're okay.  There seems to be an overwhelming sadness about you."


Okay, so that would never, NEVER happen in, say, New England.  If I'd been in a book store in Massachusetts, had created that giant mess and another patron had wanted to pass, it would've played out more like this:


Person:  Hey!  What the hell?  I'm trying to get by here!
Me:  (tearfully) I'm sorry.
Person:  Yeah, you are.

YOU!  YEAH, YOU!  GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!

When I told one of my East Coast friends about my experience with the kindly stranger in the bookstore, his read on the situation was:  "That guy was insane.  Or he was hitting on you."


However, while East Coasters might be excessively assertive, West Coasters lean more towards passivity (or, if they're cranky, passive-aggressiveness).  I can't tell you how many times I've almost been plowed over by someone on a bike because that person wasn't willing to call out, "On your left!" or ring a little bell or give me some way of knowing he/she was coming up behind me at warp speed.  This happened one day while I was hiking with a friend from New Jersey.  A guy zinged by on his bike and scared the shit out of both of us.  I asked my friend for her opinion on why he didn't warn us of his approach, and she replied, "Because he's in Santa Cruz.  He's afraid to raise his voice."

I won't make a sound.  I'll just mow you down all quiet like.

Speaking of New Jersey, here's a joke that one of my coworkers, who is also from NJ, told me recently:


Q:  What is the first question on the New Jersey personality test?
A:  "What are you, a douchebag?"


Ha!  But I digress...


Something I have learned during my years of experiencing and attempting to understand West Coast functioning is the existence of a phenomenon known as The California No.  The California No looks like this:


Me:  Do you want to go hiking tomorrow?  It'll be about ten miles.
California Friend:  Uh...yeeeeaaaah.  Yeeeaaah, that sounds good.


When Californians draw out their "yeahs" like that instead of just saying "yes" or "okay," that means "no."  On the East Coast, the conversation would be more like this:


Me:  Do you want to go hiking tomorrow?  It'll be about ten miles.
East Coast Friend:  Fuck no.

Maybe people who live in the center of the U.S. are more balanced.

I discovered another version of The California No whenever I was in the process of moving (which I did seven times while I lived in Cali), and a neighbor stopped by.  The neighbor would wander into my house, see that I was packing boxes and say, "Oh, you're moving?  Let me know if you need any help!" while he backed out the door as quickly as possible.  Make no mistake - these California neighbors never had any intention of helping me move.  They were just trying to behave in a socially acceptable manner without having to make any sort of true personal commitment.


Despite the years I have had to practice adapting to West Coast temperaments and behaviors, I have discovered that Portlanders have a particularly passive behavior that really drives me batshit crazy.  You see, Portlanders?  They have this habit?  Of ending statements as if they're questions?  So everything they say sounds like they're asking for permission?  It is So.  Fucking.  Irritating.  When a Portlander talks to me like that, the East Coaster in me wants to scream, "Are you asking me or telling me?!  If it's a statement then end it with a period!  What the fuck is wrong with you?!"  


Portlanders also insist on obsessively utilizing proper grammar.  Over the past two years, I've had this interaction with approximately 150 different check-out clerks:


Clerk:  How are you doing today?
Me:  Pretty good, thanks.  And you?
Clerk:  I'm doing very well, thank you.


Of course you are.

In addition, Portlanders continue to engage in their favorite recreational activity of apologizing excessively.  My neighbor, who is doing some home renovations, recently apologized for hammering at 1 p.m. on a Saturday.  Dude, seriously?  There's really nothing to apologize for?  So maybe next time?  You could think about not apologizing?  Because it's completely unnecessary?  Oh, no!  What the hell is happening to me?!


Another clear East vs. West Coast differential can be found at traffic lights.  On the extreme East Coast side, we have folks sitting at a red light in gridlock traffic in New York City, and out of the blue, some of them start leaning on their horns.  It's as if one person thought, "Huh.  It's going to take me an hour to drive two miles.  This situation is about as awful as it could possibly be...but how could I make it even worse?  I know!  I'll create a horrific blast of endless, ear-splitting noise!  Hooray!"  And then dozens of other people thought, "Wow, I didn't know this situation could be more awful, but it can!  I'm gonna join in!"


Then we have Oregon, where people seem to be allergic to their horns and will be so overly courteous when driving that they almost create accidents.  In Portland, it is not uncommon to find oneself sitting several cars back at a light, and the light turns green, and no one moves.  When I am in these situations, I need to exercise extreme restraint to keep myself from ramming the car in front of me.  Meanwhile, the kind Oregonians in the line of cars sit there placidly waiting for the first driver to recognize that (a) the light has turned green, and (b) green means go.  Meanwhile, I sit there boiling with rage, thinking only:  "MOVE YOUR FUCKING CAR YOU STUPID ASSHOLE!  GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!  I'LL KILL YOU!"  And that is why I am going to have a heart attack before I'm 40.

Yes, it's an opportunity...to move your goddamn car!

In conclusion, while I sometimes find myself missing the straightforward communication and blatant assertiveness of the East Coast, in general I have found that West Coasters tend to be a more gentle, forgiving breed of American.  


Except, of course, for Raider fans.

You can bet these guys don't utilize The California No.

To Rally, Or Not To Rally?

America has finally begun its day-late, 15-trillion-dollars-short uprising.  In cities all over the country, thousands of disgruntled capitalists have decided that it's time to speak out against the corporate stranglehold that is gripping the U.S.A.  In Portland, the rallies are raging, fueled by patchouli, vintage clothing, overpriced REI camping gear, and spontaneous outbursts of drumming.  Surprisingly, I don't think the Portland cops have managed to shoot anyone yet.

We are young!  We are white!  We are cranky!

While in my daily life I do my best to remain in a perpetual state of protest, I do not choose to attend these types of rallies.  When it comes to gathering outside with thousands of strangers to hold signs and chant, even if I believe in the cause, I shamelessly sit out.  Here is my reasoning for this behavior:

• I don't like people, and I certainly don't want to find myself smashed in amongst huge throngs of them.  People are loud, say dumb things, and are horribly annoying.
• I don't like following crowds or being told what to do.  When I'm at a concert and the performers try to direct my vocalizations or bodily movements (e.g., "Put your hands in the air!  Say hey!  Say ho!") I become really irritated and rebellious.  I don't like marching and I don't like chanting, and, as aforementioned, I really don't like people, so big rallies simply do not work for Al.

YOU wave your hands in the air!  Stop micromanaging me!

• Regarding the current wave of protests, I don't have enough factual knowledge to be able to back up the cause or reflect it to, for example, a news crew.  I do my best to avoid being exposed to anything related to the economy.  I won't even learn how to do my own taxes.  Ultimately our entire monetary/economic system was just made up in the first place like some big, complicated playground game, and it's all far too bullshitty for me to bother trying to download it into my brain.  
• I don't want to camp downtown.  It's cold outside, and I would miss my dogs.

Besides, if Americans really want to change the value system and practices of this country, I'm unclear about the efficacy of these rallies, although honestly I do think it's pretty cool that so many people are participating in them.  But to me, a true American protest would look like this:

Stop shopping at WalMart, eating at McDonalds, drinking Coke & Budweiser, smoking Marlboros, and banking with Bank of America.  Stop caring about celebrities, reality TV show contestants and people on talk shows, especially since it's been scientifically proven that each minute spent thinking about those people kills 15 brain cells.  Stop buying bigger cars, the newest cell phones, designer dogs, and the most expensive cosmetic products.  For that matter, stop internalizing every advertisement-created need that is thrown in your face.

For example, if you have basic motor skills & a brain, then you do NOT need a self-parking car.

Stop blaming teachers and the media for how fucked up and obnoxious your children are - just take responsibility to discipline them and teach them how to be better people.  Stop playing video games and whining or bragging on social networking sites all damn day.  Stop texting 500 bullshit messages every hour.  Take a fucking walk.  Look around.  Talk to someone in person.  If your neighbor is starving, being abused, or mentally ill, try giving a shit.  If someone tells you he's a venture capitalist and makes millions of dollars a year, don't be jealous or express admiration.  Just wrinkle your nose and say, "Ew."

Get away from me, Jerk.  You're ruining my country.

My Not-For-Profit Life

***DISCLAIMER:  Some of this post may look familiar to a few of you.  I snagged bits and pieces from a previous post which I created & later deleted.  But there's new stuff, too, so go ahead and read it anyway.***

This is quite reflective of my current salary

I have been a counselor of sorts for a variety of nonprofit organizations since 1997.  When one conjures up a mental image of a counselor, one might envision this:

M'kay?

or this:

This looks exactly nothing like what I do.

However, I assure you that both of those images are nowhere near what is, or has ever been, the reality of my employment.  


When I began social service work at age 22, it was in the domestic violence field.  I worked at a domestic abuse shelter for about a year and then became the coordinator of a batterers' intervention program.  I remember telling my sister about my new job and then having this conversation:


SISTER:  Um...shouldn't someone else be doing that job?
ME:  Like who?
SISTER:  I don't know.  Someone who's not my little sister?


Needless to say, no one in my family was particularly excited about me having that job.  Truth be told, neither was I.  I'd groan whenever the phone rang in my office, because I knew that, when I picked it up, it was highly probable that there'd be a total fucking asshole on the other line.  "Yeah, that bitch judge said I need some anger management or whatever, but it's all bullshit.  I never did anything."  Riiiiiight.


It didn't take me long to realize that the stress and strain of social service work is not at all sustainable if you actively dislike your clients.  It's hard wanting to continually put out the necessary effort to counsel people when you have regular fantasies about ending their  lives.

There were two fun things about that job.  The program was called Batterers' Intervention Program (BIP), so I used to call the clients "bippers," which they hated, so that was cool.  The second fun thing was running into clients while I was out & about with friends.  Whenever we'd pass by some guy with a mullet, six teeth, stonewashed cutoff jeans and a sleeveless, classic rock t-shirt and said character would smile politely at me and say hello, my friends would turn to me and say, "Hmmm...lemme guess."  Then I would explain to them that I was trying to branch out in my friendship circles & that they should try to be more open minded.  Other than that, the job blew horribly, but for $10 an hour, who could complain?  Oh, wait...


After that lovely experience, I decided it was time to work with younger people.  [I also promised my mother that I would never again take a job with the word "violence" in the title.]  Shifting from working with adults to working with youth was way better in many ways, but money-wise it was the same.  I remember having an interview for a position with a foster family agency, and after my future supervisor explained that my job duties would involve intensive crisis intervention and being on-call 24/7, she told me what my salary would be.  When I informed her that the amount she'd offered most likely wouldn't work for me, instead of offering more money, she offered to let me borrow a book on simplicity.  Note that she offered to lend me the book. Even with an MSW and about 25 years of social work experience, she wasn't making enough money to allow for her to give away any possessions.


Given the type of work I've done and the salaries I've made, I laughed very hard when I did a Google Image search for "school counselor" and found this:

Um...what?  Is this meant to be ironic?

But despite the low wages, at least the work is very rewarding, while simultaneously soul-crushingly painful at times.  I've worked with youth now for about 12 years chronologically and ten thousand years spiritually, so while in some ways I am 36 years old, I feel like I am actually 10,024.

Here I am resting.

One might think that it would be extremely difficult to get young people to talk about their lives.  However, what I've found over the years is that the simple act of listening most often leads to people completely spilling their guts, regardless of the fact that they've only just met me.  I think this is indicative of the fact that most people don't listen at all, so on the rare occasion that folks find a good listener, they pour out everything that they've been holding in since the last time someone listened to them. While it sometimes infuriates me that people in general are pathetically terrible listeners, I suppose I should be grateful.  If more people listened, then I wouldn't have a job.

Most people

Me

Currently, I work with high school dropouts between the ages of 17 and 25.  Because my school is also a vocational training program that specializes in construction, for the most part it attracts young men who like taking stuff apart and hitting things really hard.  Therefore, the majority of my students are much like this:

"I want nothing more than to talk about my feelings."

However, even those guys seem shocked into excessive self-disclosure upon encountering my ninja-like listening abilities.

I truly love my work, and I believe I was meant to do it.  On some level, however, I really do feel for my current students for having to work with me.  I imagine them coming to the school's orientation, hearing about the counselor they're going to get, envisioning someone normal and uplifting, and then ending up with this:

Oh, well.  At least I listen.