One Sheep, Two Sheep, Three...

Can't sleep, again.

Delayed reaction to meeting with Ex-B, to discuss settlement phase of divorce proceedings. He doesn't want to sign the agreement my attorney wrote up, and I will not sign the agreement Ex-B wants. Looks like we are at a stalemate.

What troubles me - at least, what's on my brain's front burner every time I woke up tonight - is how I'm going to pay the back taxes so I don't lose the house. I'm certain there is a solution to this, and that I will find it. Time is a factor (isn't it always?), so I need to consider some possibilities for quickly obtaining funds.

If I were younger, and pretty, and unscrupulous, and truly desperate, I would sell my body. But I couldn't even sell it for parts these days, so that option is out of the question. (I take too many medications for a variety of illnesses, plus my age and neglect of my health would prevent selling spare parts. Besides, if my kidneys were healthy, I know someone I would give one to, not sell it.)

I have an antique quilt - 168 years old - in pretty good condition, which has an appraised value of a little over four thousand dollars. However, in this economy, I doubt it would fetch more than a hundred. Something to consider, though.

Could have a yard sale. Except for the quilt, there is nothing of any significant value in the few things I own. But you never know what people will buy at yard sales, so perhaps I shouldn't be so dismissive.

My car, a 1992 GMC Jimmy, might bring a couple of hundred, perhaps more, if sold for parts or scrap. Another possibility. (First, though, I'd have to remove all the duct tape that holds it together.)

If I were a good writer, I could sell the story of my marriage to Ex-B. Not exactly a page-turner, and somewhat sordid, so I wouldn't know how to market it. (Besides, I would be too embarrassed to have anyone know how I was hoodwinked for more than 25 years. I'm supposedly too smart for that kind of stuff. HA! The joke's on me. Hey! Maybe if I wrote it as a comedy? That might work. Or as a psychosexual mystery/thriller? God knows, I have tons of material for any genre.) That's a good long-term idea, but I need something I can turn to cash a bit sooner than that. Another something to think about.

Well, my insomnia has run its course and I'm suddenly bone-tired. I'll just have to worry about this tomorrow.

Wait...it is tomorrow. Oh, bother.

This Makes My Heart Sing

I hope you enjoy this. Especially all you poets out there.

My Personal GPS

The Sower

“Conscience is a man's compass”
Vincent van Gogh
...

As Ye Sow, So Shall Ye Reap
Jeremiah 1 - 19

...

Something has been bothering me for awhile, but came to the surface of my conscience when I spoke with CL's supervisor earlier this week. Yesterday, I figured out what was nagging me about this whole episode with CL.

...

I only wrote about the things I found humorous during my interview, but that wasn't the whole picture. The experience was worse than I depicted, as was the follow-up phone call. I left the office after our interview feeling confused and disturbed, but I couldn't name what it was. Now I can.

...

CL reminded me of myself, during the last four months of the past year, when I was falling into a very deep depression, coming unglued and frantically trying to hold onto my sanity. I couldn't focus on my work, I couldn't remember where I put things at the office and at home, and my life, both professionally and personally, was in chaos. I needed help desperately and didn't know how to get it, despite the fact that I have a therapist I see on a regular basis every few months. Nothing made sense to me and I was easily confused by the smallest problems or surprises to my routine. Routine, in fact, was my only salvation, was something I could focus on consistently, make sense of in all the internal turmoil.

...

I watched CL doing what I had done in the few weeks before I hit bottom. She was able to speak coherently as long as she was doing the mundane part of her job: handing me forms to sign, explaining the services offered and the qualifying process, asking questions from a form in front of her. It was when the interview became interactive, when she had to deal with this other person in the room personally, that she became discombobulated, confused, distracted and illogical.

...

She told me her last job had ended suddenly, when new management came in. She hadn't been working with OVR for very long, she said. Less than a year, if I remember correctly. She had been trying to find work in the private sector, but had faced age discrimination. She advised me to apply for work with either Federal, state or local governments, because "they aren't allowed to discriminate," she said, several times.

...

I've mentioned how, at times, she seemed to forget there was anyone else in the room. What I left out was how startled she was when she became aware, surprised to see me across the table from her.

...

She rambled on about how some clients seemed to think they could call her whenever they felt like it, that the counselor who had her job before allowed his clients to call just to talk, without scheduling an appointment. When she made the comment about my being so focused, she went on to tell me that so many clients talked on end about their disabilities, about what kind of work they had done before, what they wanted OVR to do for them - in short, exactly what they were supposed to talk about during the intake interview.

...

I know it felt like watching an accident happening, going through the interview with her. That sort of impending doom feeling where you can't turn away - the watching the train wreck syndrome. I knew there was something wrong, but, as Lindsay suggested, too, I thought perhaps she was just having a bad day.

...

I fully recognize that I am not responsible for C's disintegration, or what followed after our interview and her follow-up call. There is nothing I could have done to help her, mostly because I didn't comprehend what she was going through in time to even try to help.

...

My conscience isn't picking at me for those reasons. It is chastising me for making fun of someone while she was falling to pieces, even though I didn't see that happening at the time. I laughed at her behavior when compassion is what was called for, not ridicule. She didn't intend to screw things up, I'm certain of that. She wanted to do a good job. She wasn't coping well, but probably thought she was. She was losing it, right before my eyes...and her own.

...

She deserved better treatment from me than what I gave her. I didn't use her name, nor did I post her picture. She'll never read my posts. None of you know her. For all you know, she might not exist. But I know she's real, and I now know she is more like me than not, and if I deserve the support and compassion of others, that is the very least I could have shown her.

...

A conscience is a blessing, although a prickly one at times. I'm still growing up, and my conscience is my most valuable tool and guide along the journey. I hope I will remember CL, and my response to her, should I ever face a similar situation. Or, worse, should I ever be in her shoes again, as I was very recently, and have the misfortune to encounter someone who will treat me as I mistreated her.

The Crow and the OVR, Chapter 4

Vacant Desk

Last Friday (2-19), I called to speak with my counselor at OVR, following the guidelines for settling disagreements as outlined at OVR's web site. If after trying to work out an agreement and meeting with no success, applicants are advised to then contact a liaison group which will act as an intermediary.

...

When the receptionist answered my call, I explained that I wanted to speak with C.L., my counselor, about the status of my application.

...

"Let me give you her supervisor," said harried sounding receptionist.

...

Hmmm.

...

I eventually had to leave a voice mail message on the supervisor's phone, outlining what I hoped to accomplish and that C.L. was my counselor. I gave my work number and cell phone, stating I could be contacted any time during the day.

...

Over the weekend, I began writing an account of my experiences with C.L., in case I had to forward it on to the liaison organization. I wrote it as a straight report, no smart-aleck comments from my brain. I decided to try speaking with C.L. one more time before mailing my request for an intermediary.

...

First thing Monday morning, I called OVR again, asked for C.L. and was again directed to her supervisor. I was placed on hold for several minutes, and had to leave another voice mail message.

...

Double hmmmmm. What is going on here? This is a state government office, underwritten by the Federal government. Even the dreaded IRS gets back to you faster than this.

...

I waited all day for a return call and was half-disappointed, half-angry when quitting time rolled around and there had been no response. Actually, I was more than half-angry; I was ticked!

...

This morning, I awoke determined I was going to speak to someone other than the receptionist, or I was going down to their office and not leaving until somebody answered my blooming questions!

...

Had to take care of some domestic issues before I could call, and I wanted to find my voice recorder so I could tape the conversation, in case I needed it .

...

As I was paying the oil man for yet another delivery, my cell phone buzzed and chirped in an unknown tone. The call was from the cell phone C.L. had used when she last called me. Good! Maybe we could get this mess ironed out without having to resort to arbitration.

...

"Hello, C."

...

"This is S.N.," the voice answered. "I'm C's supervisor here at the OVR. C.L. is no longer working for us. I'm calling everyone in her case load to catch up with what's happened lately."

...

(No kidding!? said brain, stunned at this not-entirely-unwelcome turn of events. There is justice in this world, after all. Be quiet, I warned. No funny stuff today.)

...

Seems my counselor left suddenly, didn't show up for work as scheduled, left all her files and others papers in disarray and hasn't been in contact with OVR since sometime the week before last. By my reckoning, that would be shortly after our final conversation.

...

S.N., the supervisor, is the polar opposite of C.L. - professional, coherent, organized, efficient. She had taken a folder of client files and was trying to put them in order, to assess just what needed doing next.

...

She said it was difficult to determine what C.L. had told me based on her notes, so we spent a few minutes where I told her the gist of the interview and the following phone call. S.N. said it looked like C.L. hadn't contacted my doctors for medical information, so that was the next thing to be done.

...

She also said that because C.L.'s cases were having to be taken up by her short-handed staff, the process might take a little longer than normal, but that the office would stay in touch and keep me apprised of their progress. As soon as a new counselor was assigned to my case, he or she would call me, probably within the next two weeks.

...

She apologized for what she termed the "unfortunate experiences" I'd had and assured me that that would not be the case in the future.

...

I believe her. For one thing, she knew my name without prompting from me. Always a good sign.

...

So, we'll see what happens.

I Smell It

Aconite

I glanced at the garden thermometer on my way to put the garbage cans out for pick-up tomorrow. Forty-two degrees Fahrenheit. At 8:30 PM.

Overhead, in the deep blue night sky, Orion was tilted toward the half-moon, and stars of other mid-winter constellations coyly twinkled and blinked at each other.

I had to dig out spots in the snow bank, which the borough pushed up against the carriage house (barn) doors, in order to set the cans back from the alley. That's when I smelled it.

Spring.

I smell Spring wakening. I smell it in the melting snow, that now smells like cold water, not fluffy flakes. I smell it in the wet earth, soaked by the melting snow and warmed by Earth's furnace core. I smell it in the nascent greens and reds of burgeoning buds on the maples and the dogwood, the persimmon and the sassafras. I smell Spring in the sweet-decay perfume of last year's leaves, not quite rotted to the stinking stage yet, but getting there.

I heard Spring stirring down the alley as melting snow gurgled its way to the gutter that runs on either side of the street. Too late to hear the melting icicles' song* this time, I was serenaded by the squeaking tree limbs as they stretched from their cold sleep. Not time, yet, for sap to run, but soon...soon.

I felt Spring brush against my cheeks in the slight breeze from the southeast that brought the scent of Spring to my nose. I breathed the scouting party of warm-weather aromas, and nearly swooned in anticipation. Deep, cleansing, refreshing breaths filled lungs stagnant with winter house-air and the last remnants of pneumonia. Spring entered my body and soul, lifting my spirits and my hopes.

For a quarter of an hour, or so, I stood on the cement apron to the carport and luxuriated in the coming of Spring. I will sleep well tonight and have happy dreams of aconite and snowdrops, of violets and crocus blossoms, of baby crows and returning Canada geese.

Life is good.

(*) in the comments section of that post.

Just Couldn't Take It Anymore...

...I'm going snow-mad! Had to have some color in the yard, so I bought some.

Out in the OVR Cold

One day last week, I heard the phone ring downstairs, but was in the middle of fighting a fever so I didn't get up to answer it. I forgot about it until two days later, when I was finally well enough to go downstairs. There was a cryptic message from the OVR counselor, about needing to speak with me about my application.

Anticipating that CL had news regarding the vocational evaluation tests she said would be scheduled for me, I called her back. I had difficulty speaking above a whisper, and was exhausted trying to talk. Pneumonia takes a lot out of you, I've discovered.

She called to tell me, she said, that there was nothing she could do for me. She might be able to help me find a full-time job, but there would be no vocational evaluations nor any training or any other services provided.

Why? This isn't what she had said just a few days ago, so what happened, I asked.

Well, you have a job, she said. If you were unemployed, or homeless, or on welfare or certified disabled by Social Security or something like that, we could help you.

That isn't what it says on the OVR web site, which is why I applied to them in the first place. I certainly wouldn't have wasted my time with them if I didn't believe I was eligible for their help.

Besides, dammit, she herself had told me I was eligible at the conclusion of our meeting.

Now, one of the things she had me do at that initial meeting began to make sense. I thought it odd at the time that she would have me sign a paper stating I had been informed about how to sue the OVR, before she would tell me how she could help me.

Turns out that might be the best thing she could have done for me. I have no desire to sue them, but I am going to lodge a complaint and ask for a hearing. Something isn't right here, and I intend to find out what happened.

Grump! What a bummer, man.

Not Much

I have nothing profound, amusing or valuable to say today, so I'll post some pictures of the recent snow dump, from the next morning, when it was pretty and novel and interesting. It is none of those things now.
...
The fellow leaning on the snow shovel is Mike, my next door neighbor. His snow blower died trying to make a path from his garage out to the street.
...
That single icicle is/was forty inches long - which is short compared to some hanging from other roof lines in the neighborhood.
......
My next truck is going to be a powerful pick-up, Hemi-engined, with towing and snow-plow equipment as standard equipment. I figure I can earn extra income - or at least be able to get to work on my own - when we have snow like this again next winter. Oh, yes we will, too, friends.

Monochrome World

There is one color to my neighborhood today - snow!

As soon as I can do more than the few words for this post or leave stones at your sites, I will catch up on all your posts and your comments.

Thanks for stopping by. I'm headed back to bed.

Stay warm, everyone.

Martha

Creature Comforts

......................................................... My Mommy

I don't feel so very good (whine). The stuff that started in my ears on Monday has taken up residence in my lungs. (Sniffle, hack-cough.) I want my Mommy.
...
I will visit my doctor tomorrow morning or afternoon, whenever she can see me. I have a feeling she's going to be very busy, because there are a lot of "I don't feel wells" going around. Until then, I am going to indulge in some creature comforts.

First thing I did this morning was turn the thermostat up from a balmy 61 degrees F. to a roasting 67 degrees. The oil man makes another delivery in the morning, and there was enough oil in the tank to make it for a couple more days, so I indulged in some heat. (I still want my Mommy.)

Then I brought out my favorite teapot, my Brown Betty, and brewed several pots of tea - green and red/black. This is an old Betty, heavy clay twice baked, made with a clay that has a lot of iron in it. Not one of those once fired, terra cotta jobs the American market has forced upon us when the return to tea rooms became a craze about twenty years ago. I have dropped my Betty twice and nary a nick was made in it. I love this little pot. (But it isn't my Mommy.)

Next, I found my flannel jammies, two soft sweatshirts, my extra long socks (dancer's leg warmers, actually), all the blankies I have for my bed, and my Bitty Bear. Bitty Bear had a voice box inside that growled in response to your voice. I thought she was too cute, but Grandson was scared to death of Bitty. He wouldn't let us put the toy anywhere near him until the voice box was removed. If I can find it, I'm going to put fresh batteries in her voice box and Bitty and I will commune until one of us falls asleep. (Not quite my Mommy, but I can cuddle with it and pretend that it is Mommy.)

Finally, before I go to bed tonight, I'll turn the heat back down (no sense being a glutton), after I put some stewing beef in the slow-cooker so I can have beef veggie soup tomorrow.

On my way to bed, I'll grab the one photo I have of Mama, when she was about 20 or 22, and take it up to my room. It isn't Mommy either, but it's the best I can do.

Oh, yeah and I'm going to eat that whole chocolate bar, all by myself...but don't tell my Mommy!

...

In the clear light of morning, this post is such a whine. What I was trying to say is that sometimes, when we feel really crappy, our minds harken back to when we were wee things and were taken care of by our mothers - or someone else who loved us. I was feeling nostalgic...and just a bit sorry for myself. My apologies.

...

I have a good doctor. She's going to let me treat my bronchitis and pneumonia at home, since I cannot pay a hospital bill right now. Sure wish the President had pushed Congress harder for healthcare reform.

...

Headed for bed. I'll see you folks in a few days.

Okay...

...you can turn off the snow now...seriously...we have enough...really...more than enough, actually...

Sparkling Snow Explained

It is snowing again here in south-central Pennsylvania, a wet, heavy snow that has attached itself to anything that doesn't move. We are supposed to receive around ten inches of the stuff before the storm passes out of the region on Saturday, but I think it has stopped at five or six. Of course, I could be wrong - again - and there will be two feet of the stuff when I wake up in the morning. I went around turning out lights before going to bed and was just amazed at the rainbow shards that lay everywhere on the snow. I gave Daughter's camera back today, or I would have some sparklies to post tonight.

I was Googling to find an image of sparkling snow for this post and found an explanation of why snow sparkles in the first place. Thought some of you might like to read this, too.

...and My Point Is...(long post, likely boring)

There are times when multi-tasking gets to be too much like work, and something has to give.

In my case, I’ve been trying to clean out my house, post to two blogs, learn enough about plumbing to repair a leaky toilet and a chronically plugged bathtub drain, enlist the assistance of others in helping me find a new career or decide what to study for one, finish the settlement phase of my impending divorce, pull myself up from a serious clinical depression, try to fly under the IRS’ radar until I can figure out my delinquent taxes, and finish reading two books and a journal – along with other things I can’t recall right now, but which are sitting in a dark corner of my mind nagging me for attention.

I dropped the other blog. Couldn’t get Word Press to answer my technical questions, there were tons of odious spam in the comment section awaiting approval (not!) and I was running out of fresh things to write about, it being a rather one-dimensional blog to begin with, and I’ve moved beyond the purpose of it.

I’ve put aside one of the books to be picked up later, when I can focus on it. The journal I’ve taken to bed with me, and manage to read a few lines most nights before nodding off. The other book is one I’ve renewed twice on inter-library loan, “The Pencil: A History of Design and Circumstance,” mentioned in Relucent Reader’s post.

As it turns out, I have a considerable collection of pencils; some mere nubs, others with local advertising imprinted along the length, most without erasers, some with erasers worn down to the ferrules, one an election give-away (candidate lost), plus a couple hundred color (art) pencils. Lots of them bear chew marks – good forensic lessons in bite-mark detection. Not all the bites are mine, I hasten to add.

Among my favorite pencils are carpenter pencils. My Daddy taught me how to sharpen one with a pen knife when I was 7 or 8 years old. I had broken the points on two of his and he decided to teach me how to re-point them instead of punishing me for messing around in his workshop. (I wasn’t so lucky when I broke his favorite folding rule, though.) I have a pen knife of my own these days, and will every once in awhile use it to restore a point on pencils in my workshop.

However, by far my favorite means of sharpening a pencil is with a hand-held, single blade sharpener, the sort of thing we used to buy at the five-and-dime for a nickel. I remember going to Murphy’s and spending a quarter for a sharpener in each color they had – red, blue, yellow, green and pink. The pink one I kept to myself, didn’t let anyone else use it. I was heartbroken when I returned to class after being out with mumps to discover that someone had raided my desk and taken all my sharpeners, and the pink eraser that I hid in a coin purse with my beloved pink sharpener.

Over the years, I’ve bought dozens of sharpeners, usually plastic and made for the five-and-dime market. Some were better than others, but each one ate up too much of the pencil. They were awful for sharpening the art pencils, too, because the lead was soft and would bind up against the blade. Without understanding it while it was happening, I was learning about torque every time I put a pencil into the gaping maw and twisted both pencil and sharpener. I just assumed that all hand-held sharpeners ate pencils this way, but – of course – I was wrong.

A few years ago, I acquired a new sharpener that could be used for flat lead and round lead pencils. (I can’t find it now, unfortunately.) One side had the opening for round/hexagonal pencils and the other side was for carpenter’s pencils. Fascinating thing! I studied it for the longest time, trying to figure out how it worked, but without destroying it all together, I couldn’t get inside it to see. It was made in Germany, a heavy-duty plastic shell with embedded metal blades inside. I think it was red. I went to the local home improvement store and bought a box of 10 carpenter’s pencils, just so I could put points on them with that sharpener. Really cool device and I’m sorry I’ve lost it.

Around the same time, I found an architect’s drafting set at the office supply store: a couple of French curves, a long flat brush, a couple of erasers of different materials, some hard and soft lead drawing pencils – and my first ever metal sharpener. The kit was made by Staedtler, also a German company.

For the first time in my sharpening experience, every pencil I put in that sharpener rotated smoothly; shavings were rolling off in frilled rosettes and the pencils, especially the soft, waxy leaded art pencils, didn’t chatter in the hole. Even poorly centered pencils came out better with the Staedtler.

I had an opportunity to use a dime-store plastic sharpener once when I couldn’t find the Staedtler, with disappointing results. When I located the Staedtler, I resharpened my pencil with perfect results. So, I looked at each sharpener to try to figure out why one worked better.

It has to do with torque and the stability of the blade (I might have that backwards, but I know they are related to the outcome.) On all those cheap models, the blade is a straight-edged rectangle, seated flush against the short ends of the sharpener. When you twist a pencil against those blades, the torque action twists the blade too, causing it to shift slightly, resulting in chatter. The Staedtler blade, however, is notched at each end and fits against pegs, which stabilizes the blade during the application of torque. The blade is steady, there is no (or not noticeable) chatter and the pencil moves against the blade smoothly, resulting in a perfect cut.

I’m no engineer, and I may have all this torque business dead wrong, but I know that the notched blade of the Staedtlers I have runs circles around every un-notched blade in my desk drawer.
(c) 2010 Martha McLemore

OMG at the OVR

I don't know what I expected when I went to OVR on Tuesday, but I expected better than I found. There were a couple of moments when I heard my brain think, "Oh, no!" and I wondered if I had stumbled into an alternate universe with a different set of rules for interview behavior.

The woman I had spoken with a few weeks ago to set up the appointment sounded like she might be in her early twenties. We spoke for almost half an hour and she went over most of the material in my application. She told me then that it was the most fully completed application she had ever seen. She was taking notes, she said, as we spoke, so that when I came in for the interview, we could finish quickly. We set a date and time and the call ended.

Tuesday, I arrived about ten minutes early. Right at the appointed hour she opened the door to the office and said to me, the only other person in the place, "I'm expecting...oh, what is her name?...would you be that person?"

I am if the person you expect is Martha McLemore, I answered.

"Hmmm...maybe," she said. "But come on in. If the right person shows up, you can wait out here again."

(Oh, no, said my brain, in a tiny voice, barely audible. But I heard it.)

This was the same person who had left a voice-mail message last Thursday to inquire if I had written down the hour of our appointment, since she wasn't certain when I was scheduled to be there. She had written down 1p.m. and 2p.m. for appointments but she couldn't remember which was my slot. I thought that odd at the time, but figured she was young and new to the job, so I would cut her some slack. Besides, I forget things all the time, so who was I to judge her?

She isn't young, by the way. Only a couple of years younger than I am.

She ushered me into her office and said to make myself comfortable, but not to sit in the chair on the other side of the table, because that was her seat.

Oh, I thought, you mean the one where your coat is draped across the back, there where your laptop is set up and where you have your briefcase and portable file sitting? Okay, I'll be sure to avoid that chair.

(Oh, no, said my brain. Be quiet, I answered.)

"Okay, so who are you, again," she asked.

(Uh, oh, said my brain.)

I gave her my name again, and reminded her I was her 1 o'clock...just in case.

We settled into our respective seats and she began fumbling through her briefcase and the portable file.

"I know I have your application here somewhere," she said. "OH! I forgot! My name is C---- L------; did anyone tell you who you'd be meeting today?"

I reminded her that we had spoken a few weeks earlier and that she had introduced herself to me at the time as my case worker.

"Of course, of course," C---- said. "And you are Martha McLemore."

(Oh-no, oh-no, oh-no, said my brain. You're right, I answered, but we're here now, so let's just be patient. She knows her name and now she knows mine, so we're off to a good start. Just be cool.)

C---- found my application, and took out a handful of other papers for me to sign before we got started. The next part of the interview went okay, while she was explaining the forms I had to sign. She had this part down pat.

At some point she realized there was a second copy of my application paper-clipped to the one she was reviewing.

"For heaven's sake," she muttered. "What is all this? Did my secretary make a copy of your application? Why would she do that?"

I sat there quiet, but my brain was beginning to buzz with a string of oh-noes.

"This is my handwriting!" she exclaimed. "These are my notes! How did this happen? Why do I have two copies of your application, and why is one of them scribbled on in my handwriting?"

I suggested that perhaps she had written on my application those weeks ago when we spoke on the phone.

"Why would I do that?" I think C---- was speaking to herself.

"Got me," my brain retorted, before I could stop it.

C---- took a deep breath, shuffled all the papers together, and we began again. A few minutes into the next part of the interview, she stopped speaking and looked at me in surprise.

"Why, you remind me of a sister!"

Of your sister?

"No, you remind me of a sister - a nun!"

This time, my brain had nothing to say. Neither did I.

"Oh, it must be your tops. You know, the navy blue and the white collar. And you're so clean!"

And here I was worried because I didn't take the time to shampoo my hair this morning, I said, trying to make a joke - more for my sake than hers. I really needed to lighten the moment.

(I'm out of here, said my brain.)

C---- chuckled, a good sign. She recognizes humor, or pitiful attempts at it, anyway.

"And you are so focused!"

(One of us has to be! my brain smarted off.)

Well, I'm here to learn as much as I can today, I answered her.

We got back on track, until C---- had to look through her portable file for another set of forms. She wasn't having much luck, and her frustration was increasing. Her professional demeanor, such as it was, began to slip.

"Dammit," she said, "if my assistant forgot to put those forms in here, I'm going to be pissed!"

Brain and I were stunned. I don't have any prudish ideas, as you all know, about cursing, but there is a time and a place for such things, and this was neither the time nor the place, to my way of thinking. I mean, we hadn't even had coffee together, yet!

"You know," C---- continued, more to herself, because she didn't seem to remember there was anyone else in the room. "I've had just about enough of this bullshit!"

"Well," said brain, out loud again, "I guess it's a good thing I'm not a nun, after all, isn't it?"

C---- looked up at me in shocked surprise, caught the joke, slapped her ample thigh and let loose with a laugh that echoed around the room like a thunderclap.

"Oh, I guess not!"

It took another fifteen or so minutes for us to conclude the interview. Someone from her office will call me in a few days to set up the vocational tests early next month. Once they have the results, she and I will meet again and we'll go over my training or education options.

If she can remember my name. I think I'm changing it to Sister Sofie.

(It just dawned on me that perhaps the interview was the Personality Test, mentioned in a previous post. If so, I think I might have passed that one, after all.)(c) 2010 Martha McLemore

Soup Week

I've been fighting a bi-lateral ear infection this week, using soup as my antibiotic of choice...plus, soup tastes better.
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Started Sunday with Leeky-Potato soup, in chicken broth with a little bit of cream added at the end. Yummy, but not strong enough to knock out the bugs.







Monday night, I made another favorite, Italian Bean and Sausage, in beef and chicken broth, with extra spicy sausage and both white and black peppers. Also made a pan of cornbread, which feels good and scratchy against a sore throat. Used Swiss chard instead of broccoli rabe and was surprised to find I like it very much in soup.






Today, I left work early because my ears hurt so bad I was ready to smash something. Since my bosses were the first things I saw, and because I need them to sign my paychecks, I thought it might be better to just leave work early.

Today's soup is something new, made up from things I could find in the fridge and the pantry. I used chicken broth, some leeks and baby portobello (crimini) mushrooms. This time, I used lots of peppers - black, white and Chipotle chili pepper to up the heat. While searching the freezer for anything else to add, I found the container of orange zest I was saving for cookies or a cake.

I remembered Plutarch's poem, in which he writes:

• "...in that lacquered Chinese box,
  Where, hard and dry, curled segments
  Of tangerine peel are stored
  (To perfume ice cream or soup)..."

Some of the orange rind went into the soup, lacking tangerine. The Chipotle chili heat almost overpowered the orange zest, but the zest was an unexpected pleasure in the mix. I'll have to buy some tangerines to see what they will add to soup. Perhaps citrus zest is meant for dessert soups or puddings, but I liked it in the Leeky-Mushroom broth.

After a couple of bowls of soup, I fell into bed under extra covers, hoping to sweat out the fever and perhaps open my ears. I slept for almost five hours. The fever is gone and ears feel better, but not clear yet.

Time for more soup, I think.

Cramming for Tests

Today I go in to OVR (Office of Vocational Rehabilitation) for my intake interview, and - possibly - a battery of tests. Personality, IQ, work preferences, interests...that sort of thing, all geared to help me find work and/or training for a new career so that I may support myself for the rest of my life.
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I've crammed for the IQ test and the others, but I think I might fail the personality test. I mean, how does one study for a personality test?
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I've practiced making lively, friendly facial gestures in the downstairs bathroom mirror, the mirror that makes me look less old and wrinkled. I call it my Enchanted Mirror. (It has to be enchanted or under some sort of spell not to reflect my true visage.) I've practiced being interested in other peoples' boring conversations, especially the self-absorbed people, whom I normally tune out after about thirty seconds. I've bitten my tongue when my bosses insult me and refrained from rolling my eyes when this one sexist pig of a creep tells me yet another dumb blonde or gay or lesbian joke. (I've gotten in his face about how stupid they are, but that only fueled his desire to bring me the latest sample of idiocy, so I don't bother with trying any more. I just take several very deep breaths and keep in mind that bashing him over the head with a file cabinet is not in my best interests - in the long run, anyway.)
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I've tried transcendental meditation, but there are so many voices and other noises in my head that I can never focus the way you're supposed to in order to get in the zone.
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Another reason I think I might fail the personality part of the tests is that I think you must have one to begin with, and I lost mine several years ago. I don't think this is one of those tests where multiple guess will work for me.
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For the other tests mentioned above, I am taking my thinking cap, several pencils and my best pencil sharpener, plus a really good eraser.
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For the Personality Test, I was thinking about taking my Warrior Goddess' claymore. Think that'll work?
(c) 2010 Martha McLemore