the voices dying with a dying fall

Song of the hour: Not a mouse stirring, by my oscillating fan
(okay not really)

It’s 1:30.

I’ve been trying to sleep for over an hour, but my pillow is uncomfortable and the sheep are infinite. The thought of holding any book in front of my face brings tears to my eyes… so hey there, stranger. Thought I might write a note.

Of note, I consumed roughly 11 cups of coffee over the course of the day; so don’t feel sorry for me.
I did this to myself.

I finished my first written grad school assignment tonight. It sucked, but it’s submitted on time. An ironic little piece, really—in it, a defense of the DSM and the medical model of disability (as opposed to the social constructionist model, which is a fascinating idea) and mostly defending the paradigm of psychologists and psychiatrists as being, basically, well intentioned. While writing this paper, however, I repeatedly chewed on my small, lightweight, $28 paperback handbook of the new APA guidelines on writing, which dictates your heading formats, your in-line citation styles, where to put you periods, quotations, headers, spaces, etc.etc.etc. in a farcically OCD fashion… of course put together for, and by, the mental health industry. Very frustrating, that. Bastards.

Where I last left you… oh, right. Obviously, I took the GRE, I was accepted into the program, and am now overwhelmed to sleeplessness. That part’s pretty obvious. The David part is too depressing. The short version is that the paperwork in done, Joss got to see his father briefly though they didn’t speak, and David’s wife is not my favorite person as she refuses to let her family to have anything to do with Joss. David’s wishes are unclear, but since he never responded to the letter Joss sent him, my guess is apathy. Joss, of course, is still waiting for response. It’s fucking heartbreaking. But that’s that, and I’m not sure that it will ever change.

On a brighter note, Joss started middle school, and seems to be getting along okay. Well, no new catastrophes, at least. His school does a really good job of helping kids transition into the busier schedule, so it’s been mostly painless. The bus coming at 6:55 instead of 7:55, however, is quite painful.

I have a new laptop—it’s one of the super shiny deals where everything is glossy and the screen is polished to a mirroring gleam whose function, I keep discovering, is to consistently remind me that I am in the magical possession of The Worst Haircut Ever. It’s like that Dorothy Hamil haircut my mom got me in 4^th grade that instigated ruthless harassment for 3 years, but worse. I’m hoping it will soon grow out of its Kenneth Branagh Hamlet phase and into a Julie Andrews Sound of Music phase… if I’m lucky. And though I am sometimes prone to hyperbole, I assure you now, I’m not joking. Worst. Haircut. Ever.

It’s after 2. I need to get back to my shepherding business and run a head count. I have a patient coming tomorrow—a WWII vet I really wish I could tell you about—and I’m going to be completely worthless as is…

Anyway, just saying hello. Sorry for the squeak and gibber.

Love.

Song of the hour: The Modern Leper by Frightened Rabbit

I really love that album. And it really is the song of the hour.

So, what… been seven months? I feel like I’ve communicated to some degree with most everyone I know in that time frame, so blogging hasn’t felt very pressing. I’m pretty locked in the punch, with days to weeks to months passing without much to write home about, so I haven’t. Sometimes in a wakeful insomnial void I’ll almost turn on a light and punch some keys… but then I think about what I’d write and choose instead to spare you all the philosophical midnight ramblings running in rhetorical circles of life and death and meaning and the idiosyncratic behaviors of the human animal; questions that ultimately are all answered with a passing shrug and are forgotten with the next blink… postponed perhaps until a next sleepless night, to spiral up again and then expire with another shrug, another blink…

I should be studying for the GRE right now, really, not offering roundabout apologies for kind silence. But I’m feeling anxious and the patient rationing out of words usually helps, builds a linear frame to rest these worries on.

I’ve been studying that, actually. Writing therapy. More specifically, in PTSD treatment. Creating a narrative for traumatic events helps alleviate the symptoms when it establishes some sort of causality for the sufferer. You can read all about it in my statement of purpose going to the UNC counseling program next week, with the rest of my application. I’m taking the GRE on Wednesday. Sadly, my math skills are somewhat lacking. No matter how long I stare at them, exponent rules and factorial formulas just don’t seem to stick. And believe me, I’ve stared.

I’m going to shoot for concise here. Work goes; my job’s pretty secure, which is comforting in this nightmare economy. The program I hope to enter is part time—it’ll take four years and then I can take the licensing exam for professional counseling. If I play my cards right, Duke will pay part of my tuition, though I may have to defer entering the program until next year. I think it’s worth the delay.

I did take Joss to get evaluated, and he got an ADHD diagnosis. I put him in a concerta study and he did better, but he was withdrawn from the study last week (long story) so I’m going to have to explore other options soon.

A couple months ago he and I had a heart to heart of sorts, which led to him explaining why he’s so anxious and angry sometimes. It was good for him to get it off his chest, and it clued me in to just how jumbled things are in his mind. There’s still a lot to work through, but the hardest step is over. Is that annoyingly vague? I’m sorry. I’ll tell you more, but I’m not posting it on the internet.

We also talked about his father. My story has always been that I’m trying to find him a good one and I just haven’t yet. It worked for a while at least. But he was staying with my dad one night and he called me and amongst the thousand other things that came tumbling out of his mouth, he said “Mom, I know I have a biological father somewhere, and it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. But I want you to know I know…” So he saved me the effort of beginning that difficult conversation. A couple days later he decided he was ready to hear it, and asked about his father. I told him the version that was years in the phrasing. I told him his name, and that he was a good person, but he was afraid he wouldn’t be a good dad and that he thought I could find a better one. Which is true, you know, from a certain point of view. Joss said he wanted to meet him, and I told Joss I’d see what I could do.

Meanwhile, Joss had an EKG for the concerta study and a heart abnormality showed up and I got really fed up with not knowing any of Joss’ medical history, with my being adopted and his father MIA. I tried to track down David, and since I couldn’t, I filed for child support to let the state find him for me. It’s kinda lame to wait until a kid’s almost 12 to file for child support, but whatever. I’m officially past caring.

It didn’t take them long to find him. They sent a letter, he didn’t respond, so they sent a subpoena. David got the subpoena on Thursday. And since subpoenas include the addresses of the parties involved, David and his wife showed up on my doorstep Thursday evening. He hasn’t spoken to me in 10 years, mind you, but a court order for a paternity test and poof. Like magic. I wasn’t expecting him, to say the least. (Brian kept Joss distracted inside, and I walked with them down the driveway, so Joss never even knew anyone had knocked). It took about 10 seconds to see that he had never mentioned me or Joss to his wife; she was pretty up in arms. I also suspect he talked a fair amount of shit on the way over, because she wasn’t expecting me to be as mild mannered and calm as I was. She was also pretty shaken, and I still feel really bad for what she must be going through. They have a son, about 6 years old I think. I’m not sure if she was so upset because he hadn’t told her, or that he would ignore his own kid, or what. Maybe a zillion other reasons, I couldn’t tell.

David said they both got laid off in December, and that his mother was living with them, things were hard, etc. etc. I was very understanding, and tried to put them at ease a little about the financial stuff. That wasn’t my priority. I told him I needed a comprehensive medical history, and that Joss wanted to meet him, and that I thought Joss had a right to. I also said it’s been a long time, and that for their own peace of minds if they wanted to wait until after the paternity test to even talk about it, that was fine too. I’m sure David denied even knowing me when they read the subpoena, so it’s not like I expect his wife to take my word on this. Anyway, long traumatizing story short, he apologized for just showing up—he couldn’t find a phone number for me, all they had was my address (thanks, state of north carolina) and wanted to know what was going on. That it was good to break the ice and he gave me his number, told me call and we could talk about it later. Clearly, he and his wife needed to talk so I didn’t push. I’m not looking to put stress on his family, but Joss is a troubled kid and I think meeting his father, no matter how much of a lummox he is, is really important to him. For the record, I have never once said one ill thing about David to Joss. I just hope Joss isn’t too disappointed when he meets him. I’ll probably call next week and set up a time to meet and talk again. You know, when I’m not freaking the hell out. Did I mention I was freaking out? I covered really well, but standing in my driveway hoping hoping hoping that Joss doesn’t come outside is not a good circumstance in which to hold this conversation. I don’t have much of a plan just yet, except that I need to make sure David isn’t going to be a complete ass before I even think about letting Joss meet him. There is so, so much to work through. So we’ll work through it, a little at a time. I gave David my work number, and a few of Joss’ school pictures before he left. The resemblence is obvious. I do hope he and his wife get through this intact, and that Joss will one day get to meet their son. But this is going to be a longish road I think. The court date, btw, is May 20th.

I’ll keep you posted on subsequent meetings. But for now, I have to get back to my GRE bidness and finish my application. That math score isn’t going to raise itself. It doesn’t have the power. (get it? Raise? Power? Like an exponent? I know, I’m funny).

Love ya.

Songs of the Hour: Will Oldham, The Smiths

Wow, so 2 months is a bit excessive, I suppose. I’ve
officially lost all nagging rights against fellow bloggers. Go in peace, lazy
procrastinators, go in peace.

I think the blame lies in part on the study meds I was on,
the accompanying apathy that came with the medication left me uninspired to say
the least. I did set up blogging shop at cup a joe a few times the last couple months,
but I kept running into people I haven’t spoken to in forever and my writing
time was spent catching up. Lame, but true.

I did end up quitting the anxiety study. It was set up so
that the first 2 months you just took the meds and rated anxiety levels. The
second phase either switched blindly to a placebo, or left you on the seroquel.
I waited for the second phase in the hopes I’d get the placebo—but I didn’t. I
don’t know how they expect you not to notice you’re no longer exhausted,
apathetic, or twitchy, but even 8 days after the “switch” I was still
struggling to get out of bed or carry on a conversation, so I withdrew. I hated
to do it, but I was miserable so I tapered myself off and turned in the rest. For
the most part, I feel waaaaay better and alert. The down side was the first
week left me feeling nauseated, excessively anxious, sleepless, and randomly
sweaty. I still can’t sleep. I’ve averaged 5-6 hours a night since I quit the
study 2 ½ weeks ago, and it’s tolled on me until I realized at lunch with Marco
the other day that I can again barely carry on a conversation (sorry). I’ve
tried the occasional benedryl to fall asleep but it doesn’t help—I may get
something over the counter (happy to take recommendations). Lying in bed I’ve
started a dozen novels in my head until I fall asleep. If I could remember any
of it the next day, it wouldn’t be so bad. But that frustration of staring at
the clock at 3 am knowing how worthless I’m going to be the next day produces
it’s own anxiety, you know? Ugh, just sucks.

Adding to my listlessness and lack of blogging, is how
incredibly bored I’ve been at work. I told my boss 3 weeks ago that I was out
of people from previous studies to try to recruit, and asked him for a new
list. We recruit from other studies, so it’s not like I can just put up an ad
on craig’s list. He said he’d get it to me, but didn’t. I reminded him a couple
more times, but I’m not exactly aggressive with it, so I have had nothing to
do. I retyped forms for a few days, making the study materials cleaner and
neater, but I ran out of those. Cleaned up the database, killed an hour. Reorganized
subject files, passed a morning. Otherwise, I’ve spent the last couple weeks sitting
in my office watching lectures on Ted.com and Ricky Gervais’ “Extras” on
youtube. A year ago, I would have thought that to be a rather ideal set-up, but
the day drags on forever, I feel horribly unproductive, and guilty for not “earning
my keep”.   Finally on Monday I stopped by his office, and
told him (3^rd-4^th time) I needed candidates. He dug around
for a file, circled some parts, and cheerfully handed it to me. 45 seconds.
Seriously. I couldn’t wish for a nicer guy to work for, and I see now that when
I need something I just have to go get it. No more waiting politely, he’s clearly
not going to get irritated, and I could have saved myself a lot of trouble. I’m
such a moron.

This week I also started working on his other study. It’s
easier in that I don’t have to do any neuropsych (memory and cognition) testing,
but I do have I have to run through a couple programs testing for any major
psychiatric disorders, and this somewhat uncomfortable series of questions for
screening out personality disorders. There’s something unsettling about sitting
2 feet away from a complete stranger and asking them about possible histories
of crack use, sexual abuse, suicide attempts, or hearing voices. If I were an
actual psychologist I could go on to talk about it, which would make it easier
I think, than the “yes” or “no” responses I wait for on some of the questions.
For the personality disorders, sounding nonchalant while asking “So you’ve said
you deserve special treatment from figures in authority, can you tell me more
about that?” (narcissist disorders) is its own trial. The suspicious nature of
anyone involved in a psych study gives this second guessing element to every
answer I’m given, and I can see the “how does this sound to this person?”
wheels spinning behind their eyes.  Sometimes I suspect they’re lying just get the
screening over, which screws with the data, but there’s nothing I can do about
it. Hell, I lied to the shrink in the anxiety study, who am I to judge? Anyway,
with more experience, I think learning how to do this kind of interview is
going to be a helpful skill set. Awkward, but helpful.

Joss starts school again on the 25^th. It’s funny,
we’ve been arguing about the first day of school for weeks. He hates the first
day because of the “getting to know each other” games every class goes through,
where you have to say your name and something about yourself and try to
remember everything about everyone else and are constantly being called on to
answer things. He says he’s not going, and I can’t make him. Which is, unfortunately,
kind of true. If he decides he’s not getting in the car, it’s a nightmare
waiting to happen. On the other hand,  I
skipped several first days of classes at UNC to avoid the same kind of shit. Forcing
him to go would be incredibly hypocritical, you know, if he knew I did that.
Quite the conundrum. The 21^st is the “meet your teacher” day—and this
is going to be his first male teacher. I’m hoping that when we meet him, we can
talk about what kind of games they’ll be playing so Joss’ll be prepared, and
then hopefully not scared. We’ll see. I feel for the little guy, but if I let
him miss the first day of school, it’s a bad precedent and says something I’m
not sure I want to say, about not doing things that are hard, and about
confronting fears.

I finally went to a psychologist to see what could be done
about getting Joss evaluated. I sat and talked about him, his behaviors, his
attitudes, for about 45 minutes. The Doc asked a couple questions, and then
told me he was almost positive he had ADHD, because every description I gave
fit the profile exactly. He told me more of the typical behaviors, which were
pretty much things I had forgotten to mention. So I called the people he
referred me to, but the earliest evaluation I could get was in October. I set
up the appointment, and kept looking for one to get before school started, but
wasn’t able to find anything. So at least the ball is rolling. I’ve always
thought ADHD to be over diagnosed, but I’ll do anything at this point to
minimize the struggle that school has become for Joss. He genuinely wants to
succeed in school now. Last night, after telling me he was going to be on the
honor roll this year, he asked me explain square roots so he’d have an
advantage going into the 5^th grade. I used scrabble tiles to build
squares and cubes for a visual explanation, and then a times table, and he had
it for a minute but then got frustrated and gave up. I’ll keep at it—any confidence
he can gain will help inspire him, I think.

Eh, I gotta get home. I’m hoping we can catch a matinee of
Wall-e. I was going to get into this interesting article I just read about
hipsters, but I suspect I’m too sleep deprived to make much sense. Check it
out, maybe, and tell me what you think.

Love ya.

Songs of the hour: California
Stars by Wilco, Red Elvises’ My
Love is Killing Me

It’s been such a busy few weeks I’m not sure
where to begin.Well, I’ve moved. Brian and I, in unfathomable wisdom, took it
upon ourselves to move a 3 BR house by ourselves during a southern summer. I
could write at length about a weird class of white spiders and how they spawn (and
the baby ones die and just wait suspended in their webs for someone like me to
come along and slip into a fugue staring at the sheer enormity of their
numbers, everywhere, in every imaginable furniture crevice, corner, or handhold
while their parents continue spinning and writhing on spindly legs) and other
such events that storage units generate, but I’ll spare you. I managed to get
through it somehow.

The house is in Cary, in an as awesome location as one could get in Car, given the nature of Cary. Joss than a mile from a park, Joss’ school,
a movie theatre, and I-40, it’s nearly perfect—you know, except for the Cary part. It’s great
neighborhood and though I feel like a huge hypocrite for making fun of Cary for
my entire life and then subsequently moving there, not having to worry about
Joss being set on fire by neighbor kids helps me sleep pretty well at night.
I’ll post pics when I get my camera out my glove compartment in my car in my
dad’s driveway—but until then we’ll have to settle for the street view from
google. It has more trees/spiderbreedinggrounds than I would like, but again,
managing.

The day after I moved out, my new Chinese step-sister told my dad
that she was selling her interest in the restaurant she works at/part-owns, and
was moving in with him for a few weeks before moving to NJ where her husband
works/lives. And then she did. She moved in with my dad. I think the plan is
that her mother, my father’s new wife, is leaving China in November and will be
moving in with Anna (step-sister) in NJ. What this requires, though, for INS
regulations, is that she has to live with my dad, which puts him moving to NJ
too. If you flip back a dozen blog posts or so, you’ll see the frustration and
anguish of my putting off graduate school because I didn’t want to leave my
father all alone and him refusing to move, saying “I’m 68 years old and there’s
still a lot I want to do, and it don’t involve moving.” Everything’s still up
in the air, but I hate that he may be pressured into moving to Jersey of all places. Maybe also, I might be a little
peeved if Anna gets him to move when I couldn’t—but that’s petty sister
business, and I shouldn’t indulge in it. Okay, the surrealness of the situation
just won out—what the fuck?! My dad
is married and has an entirely new
demanding family to deal with. I’m speechless, really. So, we’ll leave it at
that, and I’ll keep you posted.

As a side note, my brother is dating someone. I
really, really hope she comes from a small family. I can’t even begin to
express the enormity of that hope.

A couple weeks ago, I was talking to a
coworker about how much I hate the weekly dept. meetings and avoid them
whenever I have a remotely plausible excuse, because going to them runs the
risk of impromptu public speaking moments. She has similar anxiety issues, and talking
about how ridiculous we are, I thought about the extended laundry list of
little horrors my social anxiety spells have had on my life: an extra semester
of college from dropping classes w/ oral reports on the syllabus; dodging phone
calls of people I love dearly; leaving parties 30 minutes after arriving;
sneaking out of Sara’s wedding reception (she’ll never let me live it down);
untold amounts of money lost to various errors I’ve been too timid to confront
customer service people about; procrastinating to mootness parent teacher
meetings; and really, living in a cave in general as much as humanly possible.
I’m tired of it. So a couple weeks ago I signed up for a social anxiety study.
They’re experimenting with a medication already used for other disorders (like
bipolar) to see how it works with anxiety. What I’ve learned, is that I really
HATE being medicated, but I’m not sure if I hate it more than being a total
hermit. I am so frackin’ tired in the mornings I’m not sure how I even get out
of bed. By afternoon, I’m okay, but I’m drinking coffee again… which I had
mostly given up because it makes me more anxious. What the hell. Anyway, I’m
going to see the study through, but the side effects are really
annoying—grogginess, difficulty concentrating, and a weird… I don’t know what
to call it, suppression, maybe? I don’t get as excited about things I like. On
the other hand, I’m not freaking out either. Talking to the docs running the
study in that weird psychiatry environment, I feel as uncomfortable and queasy
mentally as I would pre-meds, but my body/heart rate is completely relaxed at
the same time. It’s a weird dissonance, I guess. I don’t like it, whatever it
is, and I can’t wait until it’s over.

I hung out with Amanda this weekend, and
she brings up memories that make me wonder how the hell I ever got this way. I
wasn’t always this way, right? We looked back at our teenage selves and tracked
the things we learned, both the hard way and from each other. She reminded me
how lucky we were to have met the people we did, when we did, and I see clearly
how lucky I am to still have you all. Eh, I’ll save the gushing gratitude for
another time. But damn, the universe dealt me goodness when I was young, more
than making up for the bad that slipped through the cracks. Love you guys.

Joss
has been experimenting with sarcasm lately, and I have to say, it’s damn
annoying. The flippant tone and non-answers make me crazy. It’s only fair,
though, given how I crowned myself Queen of Sarcasm for a few years and inflicted
it on everyone else—karmically I deserve it. I used to think I was clever, I
guess. But I’ve given the nature of sarcasm a lot of thought and, at the ripe
old age of 31, I see its latent implications in a different light. I guess I
must have thought it created an air of wisdom and street-wiseness
(streetwisdom?), like I knew better than to believe in anything because the
universe is fixed, against us, and dark, and there’s no point believing in
anything (if you know Carmen, you know exactly what I mean). But really, how
sad is that? Sarcasm is so easy, you
know? To just dismiss. To naysay. To find fault, flaws. Because believing is hard. Hope is hard. Faith is
hard. I’m not much for the latter, but I respect the hell out of people who put
faith in something. It’s tough—it takes a unique courage and strength to be
truly faithful.  Sarcastic attitudes are just a shield against
disappointment. I realize that sarcasm can cover a range of attitudes and
dispositions, and that answering a roommate’s question from the kitchen “are
you still here?” with “no, I just left” isn’t exactly a subtle statement of
hopelessness and pessimism, but I trust you know what I mean.

Well damn, I’ve
written a treatise on nothing. Third one this year, most likely. I’ll try not
to wait so long next time, less time=shorter posts. I do have an ounce of
compassion for you, dear reader.

Quick notes. Amanda, stumbled on this and thought of the God/Faith discussion
we had—thought you’d like it. And everyone, if you haven’t already, meet the cutest thing of the millennium and send Ms. Sara
J. Allen happy restful vibes, because she and Mr. Allen are going to need them.

Love.

Forever ago, Marco and then Amanda both made lists (here and here respectively) of movies they haven’t seen and probably should have, and ones they have they probably shouldn’t. I thought it was interesting, and as per my usual sluggishness have just now gotten around to it.
Haven’t seen:
1. Deliverance
2. The Wall
3.Wayne’s World/ Bill & Ted
4. Jaws
5. The exorcist
6. Grease/ West Side Story
7. Tootsie
8. Full Metal Jacket / Platoon
9. Rambo, any
10. An Inconvenient Truth
11. Special mentions, movies I’ve seen part of, but never finished for various reasons
    a. Dr. Strangelove (I feel like I might have, but I don’t remember a thing about it)
    b. Brazil (started several times, never made it to the end)
    c. Farenheit 9/11
    d. The Crying Game
    e. Mary Poppins

Not having seen these, I have no idea whether or not it’s a cultural travesty to go on day to day without these stories bundled up in the Experience that is my life. If you’re in some way appalled, nag me and I will add it to The Queue.

10ish Movies I have, perhaps shamefully, seen:
1. The Fast and the Furious / XXX
2. Gothic
3. Alvin and the Chipmunks / 3 Ninjas
4. Dracula 2000
5. Dumb and Dumber
6. Mean Girls
7. Rollerball & Youngblood
8. Armageddon / Pearl Harbor
9. Snakes on a Plane (opening weekend, no less)
10. Striptease (Burt Reynolds in nothing but boxers, cowboy hat, cowboy boots full of vaseline. dear god, make it stop).

I have nothing to say in defense, really, except sometimes you just don’t want to think anymore, you know?

I know I haven’t blogged in forever. I did one post recently, but I tacked it to The Midpoint while Marco was away inventing drinks in the surf. Another list I’d love to see you guys do– I think it’s very telling.

Anyway. Real post coming soon.

[*this post was written sunday, but friendster was
down for maintenance]

Songs of the hour: Assorted Okkervil and Devendra banhart.

Sorry for the silence. I got really sick last week,
spending last weekend in a feverish delirium dreaming of trees growing in the
south pole whose branches drooped against the ground so heavy they held the
whole world aloft. The ear infection also brought dreams of little lava worms
burrowing back and forth from ear canal to throat leaving bright orange tracers
in the darkness of the imagined cranial internal. Wasn’t pleasant. It drove me
to leave work early on Monday and go to a doctor, something I haven’t done
since Joss was born. Few days on antibiotics, and good as new, save a few more
scars on the ear canal scar-pile. Three cheers for healthcare, no?

Work is steady as she goes. I still love it. Working
with a lot of 70+ elderly, I meet the most fascinating people (an accountant
that worked on the federal budget with the Kennedy administration; a McCarthy
era NSA agent who served as a Russian translator—he had some enlightening
stories to tell. These guys are awesome). I don’t think I’m actually supposed
to have lunch with the subjects, it’s not professional or something, but
sometimes it just works out that way and I’m not sorry. I love these people.

 I also just finished the 3 day
extravaganza of “Clinical Research Coordinator Orientation”, even more boring
than it sounds, and talking to the other coordinators about what they do, I see
how lucky I am. Half of the research at Duke is sponsored by pharmaceutical
companies, and the paperwork involved in those contracts, the insurance company
stuff, or God forbid devices
instead of drugs… I’m so glad my salary is paid by the NIH instead of Pfizer I
practically have a new lease on life. Did you know, that if you have knee
issues and qualify for replacement surgery, you can sign up for a knee prosthetic
study to save out of pocket costs, and then the doctors will take you in for
surgery, put you under the knife, and then may or may not actually put in an
implant? If you’re assigned to be a control, you get fake surgery. Fakury. To
be fair, I get it. Measuring the placebo effect is necessary. You know going in
you may not actually get a knee replacement. At the end of the study, unless
the device was somehow harmful, you’ll have the option to actually get it
implanted. But still, you know?
That’s not really something I want to do. 

 Anyway. My spare time is spent
house/apartment hunting. I want to be settled into a new school district by
summer’s end, preferably in a neighborhood where the 8 year olds have some kind
of adult supervision and not brass knuckles. Closer to Duke would be nice. Is
that too much to ask? Apparently, unless $1600 a month is in my price range,
which clearly, it isn’t. The most promising thing found so far is in 

Cary

,
and I’m staring at the phone willing the owner to call (Call. Call. Call.) currently to no avail. It’s such a hassle. But every time Joss
gets hit/knocked down/robbed of something else by the neighborhood terrors, my
resolve hardens.

On a happy note, the little darling is actually going
to get out of the 4^th grade. His new teacher, who I have a mad
parent-crush on, has been wonderful for him. His grades have gone up in both
math and reading, he’s more attentive, there’s less disrupting—it’s wonderful.
He actually said something academically ambitious—he wanted to get an “A” on
his Call of the Wild book
report. AND he finished the book. Ok, so at least a third of it was read to
him, but he did read a lot of it so I need to pay off that bribe to encourage
more reading. He’s been doing a lot better lately. I can only imagine what a
better environment will do to help him. (Call.
Call. Call).

Call.

Okay, honestly, this house
hunting business is so distracting I’ve abandoned this post about a dozen times
to look through Craig’s list, the N&O, and a plethora of real estate companies.
I’m not going to even pretend to be focused on blogging.

One day, I promise, I’m going
to think something and then I’m going to tell you about it. Right now, life is
all kinds of in the way. I’m also thinking constantly of other people’s weddings
and other people’s soon-to-be-born babies and even though I’m not calling you
interrogating you about said things, I’m thinking these questions loudly hoping
you answer.  Answer.

Song of the Hour: Bag of Bones by Owen

I’ve spent the last hour or so digging through old blog posts trying to find the most recent references to my friend Tom. The way Friendster archives makes it kind of difficult, but by changing the layout to include the last 50 posts (sorry if there’s irritating load-time now) I was able to pinpoint it to "I Dreamed of You on my Farm" which was 9/7/06. The reference to when he was really sick was "Insecurious is my new favorite word" on 7/18/06. I mentioned him in the next post a week or so later, and he was better.

I was searching because I was looking for subects at work whose letters had returned. If a subject disappears, we’re supposed to look them up on the social security death index website to see if they, you know, died. One of the drawbacks of geriatric research, I guess. I’d been thinking about Tom a lot recently, but haven’t seen him in forever, so I bit the bullet and looked him up on it. I found this, and the age is about right, but he’s got a rather generic name, so I’ve been trying to confirm whether or not it’s really him. I can’t remember if that time I referred to in the
post is the last time I’d seen him or not, with my crappy damn memory. I think the home state issues the death certificate, and I know he was from either MD or D.C… the only thing that doesn’t match is the zip code– his apartment was in a different zip code. Am I grasping? Certainly. I don’t know how to confirm, really. His phone
number reaches someone not him, he has a sister in Australia I couldn’t begin to find, and it’s not like we had friends in common. The obituary I found was a weak sentence long. I just don’t know. If that’s his record on the SS index, then he died 10 days after I had seen him last.

In my ongoing attempt to decorate my office, I dug through a few boxes looking for pictures. These are the OLD boxes– the ones I’ve had in the closet since highschool– with all the embarrassing letters (my my, we were prolific) with a handful of recent photo packs dumped on top. I found a poem Tom had given me– all incohenernt about being crazy, anxious, drugged, alone. I think he had given it to me when I still worked at Waffle house on Hillsborough street. I’m glad I had saved it. There’s not a whole lot to say really, except that it makes me really sad. Anything else is going to fall into old cliches about how life is short and savor moments together, blah blah blah, the things we all know but always forget until we lose something unexpectantly and then we remember again for a while, and forget again, hypnotized by the rythm of routine that comprises our daily lives. Cherish each other. There. I said it anyway.
I’ll miss him.

Moving on, Joss and I had a fun day out yesterday. I dragged him to a couple of used book stores, where i was inspired to bribe him to read The Call of the Wild– I’ll let you know how that goes. We stopped for bubble tea at cup a joe, where Joss managed to hold a conversation about Angel with a stranger (Patrick) which I haven’t seen him do in forever– so that was nice (thanks). We went to Target and bought a new football, and went to the park to play.
When we got to the park, we parked by the basketball court, where about 30 teenagers were playing full and half-court games. Joss looked out the window, and said "I don’t want to go here."
I glanced at the courts, and asked perhaps a little too sternly "why not?".
He looked down and mumbled "because they’re going to make fun of me."
I turned off the car. "Why would they make fun of you?"
He said quietly, "Because I’m white."
"Sweetheart, they’re not going to make fun of you."
"All the kids in neighborhood do– they call me names. Because I’m white."
"Well, these kids aren’t, and I came here to play, so we’re going to play."
We walked past the courts to a grassy field, and though the language they used was atrocious, we watched them play for a few minutes and then wandered on. There were 2 kids, around 12 and 7, playing at one of the goals by themselves, and everything else was semi-organized competition. We threw the football back and forth for a while, but Joss kept eyeing the kids his age on the court, and I could tell he wanted to play with them. "You want to play with them?"
"Yeah, but I don’t think they’ll let me."
I said "come on" and walked around to where they were playing. I’m not going to pretend we weren’t being stared at, because we were. When we got to the goal where the younger ones were, Joss whispered "Ask if I can play with them."
"No, sweeite, the last thing you need to do is have your mother ask them for you."
He looked at me defiatantly "I don’t care!" Which is cute and somewhat ironic, but he walked onto the court anyway asked the older kid quietly if he could play with them. They started playing, and I sat to watch.

Joss can throw a football, but the kid can’t make a basket to save his life. It was cool for a few minutes, but then older kids would walk by, take their ball, shoot it and pass it a few times completely ignoring them, then eventually pass the ball back and wander on. Joss and the other kids got frustrated, but waited it out. I kind of had the urge start an ethnography about he poilitics of public b-ball courts– it was so fascinating. Anyway, by the time we left he had a made enough of a friend that they played football together. Ordinarily, I try to respect Joss’ anxieties, but I’m glad I forced this one. Those neighborhood wretches are having such a bad influence on him. I remember when it didn’t even occur to him to describe kids by color. I’d ask who he had been playing with and he’d give me a name, a house number, a shirt or a haircut– but not a color. And I never asked. Now he’s hyper aware that he’s white, and therefore different, from the other kids in the area.  Hopefully some of the experiences he has as a minority in these specific situations will give him some insight when he’s older about to treat people.

That’s all for now.
Love you guys.

Song of the Hour : The Stranger, Leonard Cohen

Whatever it was I was about to write has been perhaps permanently erased from my memory, completely annihilated by the discovery that Leonard Cohen is going on tour.
Seeing that, I couldn’t breathe for like 10 seconds. Then I scanned the venue list and my conniving sanity returned, because I of all people haven’t a passport, and right now only European and Canadian dates are listed. Breathe. OK. It says August dates will be listed soon… surely, surely, he’ll play somewhere in a 1000… ok 2000 mile radius? Surely he was thinking of me specifically when he designed his tour?

Ok, did a little research, and unless my info is outdated, if you drive into Canada, you don’t need a passport. Passports are for when you fly. Plane tickets to Northern US+ show tickets + rental car + hotel + gas +foodandsuch = I don’t give a damn I want to see Leonard Cohen. A lot of the shows are sold out and if they’re not it’s because they’re not on sale yet, so I’m going to end up facing the dilemma of do I go ahead and take what I can get, or wait and hope he comes nearer. Those with experience, please advise. I’m going to leave this here for now, else I’ll write about it for hours.

In other news, I’ve finished my first month at work. Everyone I interact with is almost creepily nice; my co-worker time is predominantly spent with Carolynn, the previous coordinator for the study who’s moving on to another one, and the Psychiatrist for whom I’m working, Dr. Taylor. Carolynn is a saint, insanely patient with my never-ending questions, and happy with the speed with which I’m learning.  She’s got a strong Native American heritage, and is very… Carrboro. She works 10 hr days 4 days a week so she take Wednesdays off to paint (very talented) and meet with her writing group. Dr. Taylor happily discusses Lost theories, also eagerly awaits the April premiere of BSG, and the only sharp word he’s said to me has been to make sure I turned in my my one-day-on-the-pay-period timecard, even though it was late, after I offered to just let it go because of the paperwork hassle. Seriously, people. Did I luck out or what? Benefits package rocks, if I were to stay with Duke they’d cover Joss’ college tuition (up to 15k a semester),  and there are a zillion little perks I couldn’t begin to list. For the first time ever, I don’t dread going to work in the morning.

I spend half my time sitting in my office listening to pandora, pilfering through databases organizing reports, entering subject answers to questionnaires,  or contacting subjects to be in the study. The rest of the time I’m taking the subjects  through the various stages of the study– to the MRI lab, the psychiatrist’s office, and soon I’ll consistently be running them through 2 1/2 hour memory and cognition tests. Since I’m dealing with elderly depressed people, these tests are kind of stressful to them. Each knows their memory isn’t what it used to be, and asking them to repeat 100 word stories verbatim 10 minutes after I’ve read it to them, tends be upsetting them when they can’t do it. I’ll have to resist the urge to say "It’s ok– nobody ever remembers the entire story, these tasks are really hard, don’t feel like you’re failing, please, really this stuff is impossible…." because comments like that can set up a bias, an expectation of failure, that interferes with their results. I just hate to see people suffer, especially when they’re already depressed and are going to internalize a stupid memory test into how they somehow aren’t worthwhile.

I practiced on my dad last week, warily, fearing to find him slipping, since he’s constantly losing things more than the average bear. But dammit, he was spitting out answers faster than I could write them down, kept track of the stories and geometric patterns better than I could, and it was wonderful. When asked to write a sentence, he even wrote, "I love you very much, Jenny" which I think may be the sweetest thing he never actually said to me. That was a nice day. (As a side note, I also practiced on Joss, and though his memory is child-like perfect, he really struggles with language production. I was more impressed that he sat still so long).

The only drawback is that I feel like I have zero time. Leaving around 7:45 gets me to work 8:45, and leaving around 5:45 doesn’t get me home until about 7. I’m getting into the swing of things, but I’m asleep before 11 now and I feel incredibly old through the whole ordeal. The time change isn’t helping. I’d always thought that getting out of school would return to me some kind of social life, but it isn’t really happening. I am however getting more time with Joss, and we’ve been getting along a LOT better than the immediate post-graduation time frame. Perhaps that he’s completely kicking my ass on a daily basis at this Tony Hawk 5 business has something to do with it. Makes him feel obligated to be nicer to me after he shit talks through 5 landslide trick-attack victories. Eh, whatever works. He also has a new teacher that is, by far, the coolest and best teacher he’s had yet. I think there’s hope yet, that he may indeed get out of the fourth grade.

Ever start writing and then just completely not feel like writing anymore? That’s me right now. No clue why. So briefly:

1. I have every intention of insinuating myself into Amanda’s wedding planning, because should I ever marry, I have every intention of going to Vegas. Vicarious wedding planning is good enough for me.

2. Again, watch the Wire. You know who you are.

3. I have an office. Like, my very own office. This is my first, and I find it wonderful and exciting. Also, I haven’t the slightest idea how to decorate an office on a budget, and would very  much welcome ideas. It’s small, like 9 x 12 or something, with off white walls, 3 shelves, and an L shaped desk. Help me, it’s kind of sad in there.

4. Really really not feeling the writing. Weird.

Love.

Song of the Hour: Song of the hour: God’s Gonna Cut You Down by Johnny Cash

I tried to write a post a couple weeks ago, but I never finished it. At the time, I’d been thinking heavily about the de-contextualization of the individual through global media; the saturation of post-modernism in the superstructure; and general issues of governmentality… basically things I crammed into my head for my cultural studies final exam in December that were just then really starting to take hold on my paradigm. But I never finished it and my mind shifted to full time research stuff, and I fear it’s lost in the annals of yesterthought. Maybe I’ll get back to it later.

I applied to about 20 research assistant positions over the course of December and January. Eventually, with Sara’s help on my resumes and cover letters, I started getting past the HR desk. Finally, a little over a week ago, a man called me from Duke about a job I hadn’t even applied for, we set up an interview. I bought a pinstripe suit, tried not to say anything stupid, and 4 agonizing days later he called and offered me the position.

Next Friday I start working as a research co-coordinator in Duke Hospital’s Geriatric Psychiatry center. Basically, I’ll be scheduling participants, running them through memory and cognition tests, assessing depression with some kind of standardized measurements, and making sure they get to their MRI’s and get their blood work done. The study itself looks at factors of depression (and if it’s like his other studies, that includes looking at small lesions on the white matter in the pre-frontal cortex). In other words, super exciting stuff. Some of the department’s studies overlap, so I’ll be doing other stuff for different studies, but I’ll mostly be working with this one. (Most importantly, YAYYYYYYYY!!!!! I got a job!!!!!)

During the interview, Dr. Taylor said something that didn’t really hit me until I accepted the job. He said that in their studies, they always have more data than they know what to do with, and that I was welcome to use it. In other words, write my own paper. I was on the phone with Dr. Algoe (the researcher I volunteer for at UNC) and I mentioned this to her and she really put this amazing opportunity in perspective. For graduate school, this position is fantastic– if I’m actually able to pull a paper together, a good one, then getting into a PhD program will be far easier.

Over the course of my illustrious unemployment, I’ve been spending about 20 hours a week working on UNC research stuff, most of it on campus. (BTW, we’re doing a paid study using couples, so if any of you couples in the area feel like making an extra $80, let me know J).  It’s an interesting study—this group at UNC studies the role of positive emotions (admiration, gratitude, elation, etc.) which is a refreshing and interesting break from the usual psychopathology. I’m going to keep volunteering there as long as it seems feasible, nights and weekends and stuff. Dr. Algoe is awesome, and the things I’m learning there are really useful. When did I become such a research monkey? I can’t believe I’m actually running experiments on people—attaching electrodes and pulse monitors and videotaping conversations. Isn’t that awesome?

In other news, my father returned from China, indeed, as a married man. Bit of a cradle robber, marrying a lady some 15 years his junior, but hey, that’s how my pops rolls. It’s unclear as to when I’ll get to meet my new step-mom, but hopefully within the year. He had a good time for the most part, though he was freezing most of the time. Apparently indoor heating is rare in non-tourist China. He wouldn’t go ever the types of things he wound up eating, but he still won’t go near a bowl of rice. The most amazing thing was hearing my dad use the word "poverty", I think his worldview was effected in a way he can’t really articulate. Regardless, I’m really happy he got a chance to spend a month on the other side of the world—I want so much for him, you know? Anyway, I’ll try to post pics when I get them uploaded.

Otherwise, I’m obsessively watching The Wire (as should you), and reading whichever books Amanda puts in my hand. I’d just as soon be reading her blog… but as you know she’s still on hiatus (no pressure)J. The rest of you have been doing a much better job with your updates, I appreciate that. I just saw a pic of a preggers Sara on her brother’s blog, and it made my day.

Eh, this is long and dull. Andy sent me his budding novel to read, my time is better spent there. The monkey’s doing ok, I finally have a job, and I miss you people. What else is there to say?

Love.

Song of the Hour: Trouble by Elliott Smith; The Red Walls

I’ve
been a mess this month. Trudging through finals, figuring out how to
graduate, waking up and realizing I had like 3 days to do all my
Christmas shopping, scrambling to get Joss’ gifts together (half of
which are already destroyed), going to Kinston to see my brother and
his fam (a whole different nightmare), and then helping my dad get
ready for a month in China– it’s been busy.

My dad left
Friday night, driving to new york with his future (step)son-in-law, and
went through a typical  holiday traveling nightmare.  waiting in the
airport 6 hours, getting on the plane, some kind of fuel leak, wait
another 3 hours in the terminal, get on another plane, the bathrooms
don’t work or something, get off again, wait for a 3rd plane, get on,
leave– having spent roughly 15 hours on the airport grounds. I think
he’s at the Great Wall right now, eating holiday fudge made by my
godmother. It’s soooo surreal I don’t quite know what to do with
myself. I mean, my dad’s in China. Getting married.
Does that blow anyone else’s mind? It’ll take a year for her to move to
the states… maybe I’ll figure this out by then. Perhaps "My Chinese
Step-Mom" will make a good novel.

Christmas dinner at my
sister-in-law’s grandmother’s house was even more traumatizing this
year. Oh, in case I didn’t mention it, Terry left my brother. By "left"
I mean moved in with her mother, who lives across the street. That way
my brother can look out the window every few hours at night and see
that she doesn’t get home until 4 in the morning. I don’t think much
has been officially filed yet, but it’s a matter of time. The boys (12
and 5) are staying with my brother, though they have a time-share
going. Christmas morning involved the kids waking up at 8, and my
brother insisting that no one open presents until Terry got there. And
she showed up at 10. So picture 3 rowdy young boys on Christmas morning
having to sit on their hands for 2 hours. It was ugly. Jimmy tried to
pass the time by reading the damn nativity story, which of course made
it worse. By noon, when we left to go to Terry’s grandmother’s house,
it was tense to say the least.
Terry has like 5 aunts. One of them
is the bane of my existence. Loud, outspoken, nosy and domineering.
Terry’s family gets serious kicks out of what they consider to be
subtle sexual innuendo. They literally "rib" each other. They’re
breathing southern stereotypes, as much as I hate to say it. I’ve
always minded my P’s and Q’s with these people, because they’re not
going to go away, you know? But with about 18 people in a 20×20 room,
asking my dad about his trip to China and impending marriage, I hear
the banal Aunt ask my dad, "You gonna get yourself some sponge baths,
Mr. Jimmy? (giggle giggle) This Chinese lady gonna give you some sponge
baths?" I snapped. She was maybe 5 feet from me, and I stared at her
until she looked at me and I asked, "What the hell is wrong with you?"
As much as I HATE making people uncomfortable, I did get a tiny amount
of satisfaction watching her squirm and realize that I didn’t find her
comments appropriate. I ignored her for about an hour, but guilt got to
me and I was nice to her the rest of the afternoon. I can only hope
there will come a holiday when I don’t have to talk to Those People.
One year where I don’t have to listen to why there needs to be a wall
around south Texas, or how a Clinton is an anti-christ. 17 years I’ve
seen these people every goddamn christmas.
Well, at least we didn’t have to sing happy birthday to baby jesus this year. No, I’m not kidding.

Brian
got me season 1 of MacGyver  for Christmas, and I’ve been having a lot
of fun watching it with Joss. I think he’s getting into the science stuff
a little bit, which of course makes me happy. He’s full of interesting
observations– "Mom, Macgyver kisses a lot of different girls, but he
doesn’t marry  any of them!"
No, sweety, no he doesn’t.  I really loved the show when I was little,
and it’s cool to watch Joss try to figure out exactly what that man is
going to do with a bucket, a towel, a swiss army knife, and match to
get those gypsies out of prison. It’s a kid-friendly show, which is
refreshing. There’s still violence, but it’s manageable.

I’ve
got to see a lot of friends this holiday, though it hasn’t been the
same without DD. Andy’s back from London, I had lunch with Amanda, I
got to have lunch with Sara and her fam, and to catch up with Suzy.
It’s been great. I do wonder what’s happened to Chrissy, David K., and
Owen– but I just assume that if they’re around they’ll let me know.

Andy
and I had lunch at my old Waffle house stomping ground. We’re half-way
into some dissection of the life of Jesus or something, when I happen
to get a good look at the cook, and have a freakin’ heart attack. Joss’
grandmother still works there. My mind shut down for a few minutes. She
either didn’t see me, didn’t recognize me, or didn’t acknowledge me– I
don’t know. Joss has her eyes– it’s a little scary, really. By the
time I worked up the nerve to talk to her, she had left. The doorway to
the only half of Joss’ medical history I’ll ever have, and I can’t work
up the nerve to talk to her. I don’t know if any of you remember her,
but she’s pretty intimidating. Didn’t she threatened to kill me a
couple times? I think the last time I spoke her, I had let her babysit
an infant Joss. I can’t remember what happened after that… I had seen
her and she wouldn’t talk to me. Damn, this is years ago and my memory
is shit. I’m a neurotic mess. I need get over it and just ask her a few
questions– that’s not hard, right? The worst that can happen is that
she won’t talk to me again. I have no idea why I’m so anxious. I just
am. Maybe I’ll try again this weekend…

As a Joss side note, he has confessed that he is in love with Ms. Miley Cyrus, aka Hanna Montana.

How cute is that?  He says that the age difference (she’s 15) won’t be
a problem. He’s very confident. As entertaining as his marrying into
the Cyrus family would be, I hope this phase passes soon.

Ok, I’m done. I forgot anything else I was going to tell you.
I’ll leave you with some pics, and write again should I remember the rest.

   
usually Joss/Andy rough-housing

My nephews, the matching set.

If I’ve told you anything about Trent, this one says it all…

My favorite part of this post-grad picture is how Joss’ mouth is crammed full of cookies.

Happy New Year!!