you thought that you could outrun sorrow

I have been running back and forth ferrying clients from the waiting room to my desk, my desk back out to the waiting room like a crazy person all morning. With the sun emerges all the people who need to recertify their Food Stamp cases do as well; what you may not realize is that people who ride the bus or have unreliable transportation do not keep appointments on rainy days. I learned this some time ago, and when I wake up to thunder and lightning my first thought is no longer "O Goddamn, I wish I could stay in bed all day," but "Yay, I will have so many no-shows and can catch up on work hardcore." Needless to say, the rainyness of this week has had me spoiled. Not to mention the fact that I called out of work Tuesday based primarily on the uneasy night's sleep I had, which was most notably punctuated at around 3:00 AM by a dream in which my bed and home were completely infested with a particular species of black ticks that had a white dot on their backs. I awoke from this dream scratching my arms and legs and chest and neck frantically, and immediately took the cat into the bathroom to inspect him for fleas. I found none. I believe this dream was a message that I need to buy Frontline for my cats.

But it costs $60 every other month!

But you need to buy it. Or else you'll get fleas. Like you did last summer.

(The sound of hysterical crying)

I have been abstaining from coffee in the morning, which may explain my notable absence from LTA as well as Twitter. When I'm not unbelivably jacked up on caffeine, I find myself with notably less to say.

After several tragic and annoying debacles, nearly every one of our precious tomato/zucchini/pepper/basil seedlings were destroyed. This culminated in our landlord somehow chopping the tender top off every potted plant on our front walk with brutal, careless weed whacking. But you know what I said? I said "FUCK THIS NOISE. YOU CAN KILL ALL MY PLANTS, LANDLORD, NEIGHBOR'S DOG, REGULARLY FLOODED FLOWERBED IN THE BACKYARD, BUT YOU'LL NEVER KILL MY DESIRE TO GROW THINGS." And I went to the nursery and I got an orange pepper plant and a Green Zebra tomato and another heirloom variety, and then I went to Home Depot and I bought some ridiculously large pots because Martha said that when you're growing vegetables in pots, they have to be at least 15 gallons, and I planted them. And I think they're growing. I can't say for sure.

This weekend will be full of fun because Brandon's brother and his fiancee (God, I hate that word I hate that word) are coming to town, and we wish to squire them around and show them why we love Memphis. We're going to the farmer's market and the symphony (free tickets) and maybe to Mud Island. Hoping to hook up with Bette since she'll be in town for Bands Not Bombs. So, Go Away Rain! You can come back on Monday and give me a vacation from interviews.

One more thing: I have been using Tom's of Maine apricot-scented deodrant, and I find that at the beginning of the day, my pits smell like apricot. The middle of the day? Apricot flavored BO. By the end of the day, straight up BO. Which is kind of fine with me, because I think we Americans are an oversanitized lot, and I'm not one to squelch the natural workings of my body. But it is pretty funny to smell like a piece of rotting fruit by 3:00 every day.

baby, we'll ride in style

I have been neither a dependable blogger or cook lately. Some vague form of uninspiration must be the cause, but I can't pinpoint the why of it. I have often expressed that cooking in the evening when I get off work is therapy for me, but as of late I have been more prone to convenience foods. Maybe that means that I'm so well-adjusted that I don't need the therapy anymore?? Who knows. I'll be back in the saddle, eventually, I'm sure. I'll just blame it on hormones, that's so easy and since I have a complete lack of knowledge regarding hormones, it's a mystery diagnosis that can't be questioned.

I'm getting all juiced about Obama. I was only vaguely interested in the election during the primary process because at the root of it, I'm one of those pessimists who feels that the country has gone so far down the shitter that no mainstream candidate would or could engineer the sort of change we really need. However, my little Democrat heart has started to rat-a-tat-tat with the hope that evil motherfucking Republicans will be ousted after these eight long years of hell, and I like it. I was reading a blog by my ex, who has been seized by a great shining hope in the light of the convention, and he mentioned our 2004 post-election slump. Our anniversary was Nov. 3 or 4, we could never settle on which, and that year we'd both taken off work/school to celebrate together. W was recrowned the night before, however, and I remember us moping listlessly around the Blockbuster video together, unable to muster any energy to pick out a movie, or care about anything. More than anything I wish my dad could have outlived the Bush regime; he was a self-professed "Yellow Dog Democrat," and after his retirement discovered the left wing blogosphere and became obsessed with anti-Bush rhetoric and conspiracies. He drove my mom fucking crazy.

Anyway. Every time I talk about my dad I feel weird about it, like it's too heavy or I'm trying to garner some sort of sympathy. This "Daddy's Girl" tattoo I have is the perfect example; random people in public will ask me about it, and then I have to say, "Oh, he's dead," and then they get all awkward. It's kind of weirdfunny, but to be honest, sometimes I just act like he's not dead. For example, when a fireman in the Whitehaven Kroger was asking me about in order to hit on me.

I'm doing a case in which a 70-year old couple are raising their daughter's six children, ages 13-5. Can you imagine? For God's sakes. My mother would fucking kill me.

I want to leave y'all with a fantastic tune, the "first rock'n'roll song" EVER, "Rocket 88" performed by Jackie Brenston & His Delta Cats. This is some mystery video that I found on Youtube, but you get the picture. There is some bonus Bette Page, meeeyeow!


All right, I hope everyone has a positively lovely holiday weekend!

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.