Jesus, play the tambourine for me.

I have been mulling over starting a blog for weeks and weeks now; I always enjoyed blogging on Myspace before the total mindfuck of its convoluted politics got to me and I just shut up. Then the blogs of two of my close IRL friends penetrated my internet routine, and the stage was set for bloggery.

Jesus Christ, how many times is some form of the word blog in those sentences?

I had a real fucked up sitation at work yesterday that I am still mulling over. I had a client come in who was applying for Medicaid benefits. Not full benefits, but if someone has Medicare, which this person did, they can apply for special benefits that pay their leftover premiums and whatever else the Medicare does not cover. He told me that he needed these benefits because he is trying to get on a kidney transplant list, and his social worker advised him that he had to obtain this Medicaid. He had pretty high social security income, and when I ran the case, he failed. He has a wife and two children, and I can put them on the case but his wife apparently has a good job that might fail the whole group. I've got my tit in a vise on this one. I can put the wife and children on there and state that she has no income, which is a lie and pretty easily caught because of the systems the state has in place, but get him these benefits, or I can request the work info for her and risk him failing again. I'm not used to sitations like this; usually it's the same old same old around here, with welfare mommies and unemployed people living with friends or family that want their little bit of Food Stamps. It might be hard to believe from the outside, but I am rarely placed in a situation that is truly fucked up, but Mr. Kidney Transplant is like a scene from Sicko playing over and over in my head.

So, I have resolved to eat no fast food for the entire month of July. This decision was made somewhat drunkenly at El Mezcal last night. B forces me to go there at least once a week, and since I'm so incredibly weak we go feast on chips and I have two metric tons of sour cream and guacamole. The resolution sprang from an outing the night before, when we drove back and forth across the Mississippi river, listening to a Bright Eyes song he'd just discovered, and then, oh no! what's this! ended up with chili cheese fries and teeny burgers from Krystal. "Oh," B said, "I forgot these Krystal burgers are the so gristly. It's like chewing up an ear." Yum yum. I am actually quite fond of the mustard-pickle-cheese taste explosion, as well as the soggy meatness that happens when they steam those babies. Plus, miraculously I got no stomach cramps immediately after, which usually occurs with Krystal.

I just do so well eating wisely during the day, then pop a 1/2 bottle of wine in me and ask me if I want Taco Bell at around 11:45 at night and it's all "I may DIE if a chalupa isn't in my mouth soon. Make it a baja." So I'm cutting it out, like a tumor. A tasty meat paste tumor.

Amanda as the whitest person at DHS anecdote: The other day we had our biyearly party. We ate catfish, there was a hula hoop contest, and we played a bastardized version of Family Feud, called, imaginatively enough, "Fantasy Feud." The question was "Name a Famous Athlete," and although the top answer was, of course, Michael Jordan, the first thing that sprang to Whitey's mind was Babe Ruth. Good Lord.