getting the eff out of here...
in 48 hours i will sitting on a plane at this very moment, watching the sun rise across the tarmac. it can't really come soon enough. i have a homestudy to finish typing this morning, a homestudy to review this morning, laundry to do this afternoon, last minute running around to get done tonight, a filthy house to clean tomorrow morning, a grandmother to pick up so she can babysit the cats and dog tomorrow afternoon, and then mom and i are off to manchester, new hampshire for an overnight stay at the not-so-bad Super 8 before our early morning flight to Phoenix on tuesday. we'll be IN phoenix by 12:30 pm their time, which is the earliest i've ever gotten there. usually i'm driving in the pitch dark around twisty-turny mountains, cursing silently and a lot to myself as i am trying to find some friggin' place down a dirt road that someone else has chosen we'll stay at while the someone else is reading the map upside down. this time i chose. mom and i had some whiny moments, but ultimately i decided i wanted to stay in a log cabin out in the middle of freakin' NOWHERE. this is where:
www.juniperwellranch.com we're staying in the Granite Rose log cabin
i know mom was scared out of her wits by my father about the potential for rattlesnakes sketching out the perfect place to bite her in the middle of the desert--i simply do not care. they have a rattle for a reason--if you hear it, if means "get the fuck away from me" and so you do. it's simple.
work and life has been horrendous for the last two weeks. i am working with the most freaky, non-compliant, non-cooperative families of my career. don't tell me that you are a single person just overcoming breast cancer and chemotherapy and want to a adopt a teenage girl you don't know yet. no, don't tell me that. also don't bring me into your house with clouds of fruit flies buzzing around in it and floor to ceiling knick-knack cabinets in every freakin' room, either. don't tell me that i have to chase down all your documents and call all your references because you are too damned busy/important/lazy to do what you are supposed to do. I AM THE SOCIAL WORKER...don't piss me off.
here's a tip for anyone with a uterus: if a male gynecologist tells you that by removing polyps and scraping out your uterus, you will have easier or at least somewhat more tolerable periods: DO NOT FUCKING BELIEVE HIM. EVER. EVER, EVER, EVER. and after you punch him in the face and call him a big fat fucking liar, ask him for a prescription for Vicodin, fill it, and go find a female gynecologist who will tell you the truth: once you have polyps removed and have your uterus scraped out, the first period after that will feel like a tribe of Keebler elves have taken up residence in your gut and have decided to create a garden in there with very sharp, steel instruments and very little soil. After they have raked and shoveled your innards for approximately 33 hours, they will then decide that it is just not worth the effort--and will then SET THE WHOLE GODDAMNED PLACE ON FIRE, including your bowels if they feel like it, and then they will tromp dementedly around their effigy, screaming with glee. two more months of that, and i'm having the plumbing ripped out if it doesn't quit.
adios, amigos/amigas. see you on the flipside!
www.juniperwellranch.com we're staying in the Granite Rose log cabin
i know mom was scared out of her wits by my father about the potential for rattlesnakes sketching out the perfect place to bite her in the middle of the desert--i simply do not care. they have a rattle for a reason--if you hear it, if means "get the fuck away from me" and so you do. it's simple.
work and life has been horrendous for the last two weeks. i am working with the most freaky, non-compliant, non-cooperative families of my career. don't tell me that you are a single person just overcoming breast cancer and chemotherapy and want to a adopt a teenage girl you don't know yet. no, don't tell me that. also don't bring me into your house with clouds of fruit flies buzzing around in it and floor to ceiling knick-knack cabinets in every freakin' room, either. don't tell me that i have to chase down all your documents and call all your references because you are too damned busy/important/lazy to do what you are supposed to do. I AM THE SOCIAL WORKER...don't piss me off.
here's a tip for anyone with a uterus: if a male gynecologist tells you that by removing polyps and scraping out your uterus, you will have easier or at least somewhat more tolerable periods: DO NOT FUCKING BELIEVE HIM. EVER. EVER, EVER, EVER. and after you punch him in the face and call him a big fat fucking liar, ask him for a prescription for Vicodin, fill it, and go find a female gynecologist who will tell you the truth: once you have polyps removed and have your uterus scraped out, the first period after that will feel like a tribe of Keebler elves have taken up residence in your gut and have decided to create a garden in there with very sharp, steel instruments and very little soil. After they have raked and shoveled your innards for approximately 33 hours, they will then decide that it is just not worth the effort--and will then SET THE WHOLE GODDAMNED PLACE ON FIRE, including your bowels if they feel like it, and then they will tromp dementedly around their effigy, screaming with glee. two more months of that, and i'm having the plumbing ripped out if it doesn't quit.
adios, amigos/amigas. see you on the flipside!