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!

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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.

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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.