I walk in and dump my tupperware in the sink, plop the book and pursue on the counter and stick my coffee in the fridge for the following morning. I mention that I'm up to my eyeballs in work and classes are all just finals, and I get greeted with "that's what you want, to be busy all the time." No question about the ethical quagmires that instantly appear at work. No question about how I'm feeling with the APS report I've got sitting on my desk and have 72 hours to fill out. Know what happens in the 24 hours I've given the potential abuser? I've given him the ability to make a good story and coach my elderly client on what to say. Or how about the Administrator of the ADHC telling me that I must run each APS report past her first (because every abuse report takes a client away from her pursue strings). Excuse me? No honey, this is how I work: I take my Code of Ethics seriously. I hold myself to a few Codes and you might have heard of some of these: the Word of God (heard of that one?), NASW Code of Ethics (or maybe this one?), and the Ethics of the ADHC (you do know your own ethics code, right?). Then on top of that I have the ethics of the APA of which I'm also a member, and the ACA, which I want to become a member of, etc. These aren't just acronyms and things you sign your name under at graduation and then forget about; codes are for protecting your client, not yourself.
Nope, that's not something to talk about when I get back from 6 hours at work and the other 7 hours at school studying for finals, taking an exam and talking with my professor at length. No, don't engage me at all; jump straight to "let's stitch up the holes in your ears" from a botched pierced ear thing that was cheap because the pediatrician did it; they're just not straight so we got them redone a zillion years ago. I declined and said that I don't place my worth and value as a person on some stupid closed up hole in my lobe. Now, now I get to hear about how I don't take care of myself and "do your girlfriends also not care?" to which I can only say "my girlfriends and I wear the same amount of makeup, boots and short skirts when we go out clubbing." Would she also like to hear guys buy me shots of Patron, because I doubt it would prove my point: closed piercing holes that no one can really see are not a sign of me being "cheap" or "low class", and employers have never had an issue with it. Then I'm told a bunch of other stuff. What's the point? Its the same old argument recycled.
So, I've been banished to eat my TV dinner in my room. Please, my room? Really? Hah, I've got books, a laptop, calligraphy utensils, 5 unfinished quilts, 5 ...er 4 Cuban sodas, a radio, an ipod, and tonnes of other things this bookish introvert could entertain herself with for hours on end. Heck, banishment to the room is better than the old days when I was eating my dinner in the laundry room.
That reminds me, I need a new house plant; maybe get one for the office, too.
I'm glad I'll be working on Christmas Eve, smiling and talking with my clients; just Thanksgiving I won't be able to recall one such Christmas where I have been authentically happy and smiley. And its not because I'll be paid (not overtime, mind you). Just being with people who are actually able to be appreciative of the littlest thing that I do or realize Christmas is not about food, gifts and walking on eggshells.
I bought a book on Friday evening. My first impulse for buying it was the cover. Then I read the introduction and that hooked me. Being so bookish, it's generally hard not to judge a book by the introduction. I found Moore's most recent book that night and spent the 2 hours at Barnes and Noble reading the first 60 pages. I might have to go back some afternoon or evening to just finish reading the book. Anyway, my impulse buy is "party of one". Now, I've got to put in my caveat: I'm not a loner, but if I spend all day with people, I invariably turn into even more of a neurotic wreak than I already am on a daily basis. I say neurotic, I'm sorta high-strung. Anyway, the thing that got me talking about the party of one is this:
"Imagine you're a loner whose ideal home would be a cottage on the beach, miles from the nearest neighbor. And your ideal day would be one in which you slept from noon to dinnertime, worked half the night, then split the rest between raising pigeons and walking -- alone, of course -- on the beach.
In some places and eras, you could get away with it. Not most. In most you would be loathed, suveilled, suspected of perversion, called a witch, hauled out, spat at, set afire -- or something like that. With luck you might only be laughed at, mercilessly, all your life."
I've got to say, as a kid and teen I dreamed of owning an old weather-worn silvered wooden cottage in some back country with green hills and forests, raising sheep. Then, I think it was last year, I was told sheep stink, but I imagine I prefer sheep stink to cow stink. Anyway, my daydreams are loner daydreams: utterly alone in huge old mansions or walking city streets in old fashioned garbed alone at night. Ain't nobody in my daydreams, except for this one kid.
Anyway, I've got work and things to do yet.
I'm off.
