Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Like Sands Through the Hourglass . . .

. . . So Are the Days of Our Therapy Lives.

Previously on Days:

Ernie pushed for the hiring of his Occupational Therapy mentor Bert. Once taken on, Ernie and Bert were inseparable, until (dah dah dah) Bert insulted Ernie's wife and his friend. Weeks of silence and seething anger ensued. Bert, at his wit's end, resorted to a candle lit dinner and a romantic movie. Ernie was swayed back into his arms.

Today's episode:

Bert comes in to find that Ernie has not made the lemonade he prefers, but has instead made a green tea blend. He furrows his brow, but remains silent. Refusing to admit something is amiss.

Ernie, obviously put off by something, stomps heavily around the therapy office until his wife can take no more:

Wife: "Alright, Ernie, enough. What's the deal, pickle?"

Ernie: "What are you talking about?"

Wife: "You're stomping around like an elephant and biting everyone's head off. What bee is buzzing around your bonnet?"

Bert looks up from his desk, stares in their direction, then realizes he shouldn't look interested. He shuffles papers on his desk and makes notes in margins, trying vainly to look disinterested and otherwise occupied. However, his ears remain perked up like dogs'.

Ernie: "SOMEONE said they would call last night with the information on LP. But I guess SOMEONE had more important things to do than his or her actual job."

The wife turns her head to look at Bert. Always the peacekeeper she attempts to repair the rift.

Wife: "Bert, did you forget to give Ernie the billing information for LP last night?"

Bert, still trying to seem like he's not been eavesdropping, replies: "Hunh? Did you ask me something?"

Corey gets a disgusted look on his face and practically screams: "Don't play stupid, Bert! You heard her! If this job means so little to you that you can't carry out the simplest of tasks, maybe you should work elsewhere."

*Did anyone else mishear that last sentence as "If this relationship means so little to you, maybe I should forget the whole affair, return to my female wife and banish you from this office FOREVER." Or is that just me?*

Friday, March 23, 2007


I walked last night. And then I ran. I started running and just didn't want to stop. It was as if things I didn’t even know I was feeling were chasing me the moment my feet hit the pavement. I ran further, and it seemed faster, than I’d run in ages. And the thought struck me that maybe, just maybe, if I could keep running – they could never catch me. They would be unable to jump back inside me, weighing me down, drowning me.

But I eventually stopped running. You have to. It wasn’t a conscious thought, it was just an empty moment where I found myself at my front door. Miles Davis was placed into the surround sound system and the neighbors were treated at a late hour to So What, Blue on Green and All Blues. I skipped the exercise ball crunches and the elastic band curls to stand under the water and hope the music was louder than the thoughts in my head.

I tried to talk to someone, just to ease the anxiousness that was threatening to overwhelm me. But I learned early not to be open, and he couldn’t hear me through the walls I erected.

Monday, March 12, 2007

If You Don't Have Anything Nice to Say, Come Stand By Me

I hate scorching Arkansas days where it hurts to breathe, your skin glistens and your feet burn from the blacktop boiling under your shoes

I hate empty nights where sleep teases you briefly then leaves you awake in the void haunted by fears and worries you can’t name

I hate books that ramble with the prose of a pretentious writer who confused some poor editor into publishing him

I hate songs whose words don't match the notes

I hate my hair when it blows into my face and sticks in my lipstick or begins to fade to the blonde I was born with

I hate gossips whose lives are so insignificant that they feel they must talk about people they don’t know

I hate commas and periods and semicolons and stops of any kind tonight

I hate emotions that are there hiding under the surface bubbling slowly up but trapped unidentifiable under my skin

I hate people who have no experience no training no knowledge of what I do but seem to think they can do my job and do it better than myself

I hate

I simply hate

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

It's All About the Accessories . . . Even When You're Three

Though I’m certain it wasn’t the first tongue lashing I’d received from my mother (also a very noted ranter), I can clearly remember one instance.

I was, at most, 3.5 years old. It was just my mother and me. We had been shopping all day and I was restless and tired. But my mother had assured me that if I would stay quiet in the hallowed aisles of Dillard’s, she would take me to K-Mart and allow me to use some of my “savings” to buy a toy or four.

At three and a half, toys are powerful motivators for silence. Particularly when coupled with the fact that I could be a “big girl” and buy it with my very own money.

Let me tell you: I was decked out.

I had on my boat-necked turquoise tee that perfectly matched the turquoise, hot pink and bright yellow stripes of my best skort. My pink jellies (shoes, people, surely you remember jellies) had the tiniest of heels and complimented the pink stripes floating happily above. My hair was coiffed appropriately and my necklace was a large gold heart replica of Orphan Annie’s prized possession. I, also, had on my officially licensed 'Muppets' Miss Piggy watch in a lovely shade of lavender, something I never left the house without.

I was accessorized to the hilt. Right down to my pink Cabbage Patch Kids clutch purse.
In which, was a fifty dollar bill that would procure me the toys I had been so manipulatively promised.

When we reached K-Mart, the only thing on my mind was the Barbie aisle. Skipper had just emerged on the scene and I was determined to have the newest item (in this, I’m not much different today – my mother calls me the “Gadget Queen”). I took my mother’s hand and led (read dragged) her to the toy section.

My mother has never been keen on watching me. She raised me to be independent and responsible and knew I could be trusted in the aisle alone. She was, as it turned out, quite wrong. This is not to say that she left me. She was simply at the other end of the aisle looking at the baby-doll accessories. I had informed her, quite petulantly, earlier that I was out of Cabbage Patch diapers.

I, focused on Baby-Sitter Skipper complete with a high chair and a small plastic baby, laid down my cash filled purse and began to search the box for signs of other parts – such as a bottle or a small spoon and bowl to feed her with.

I imagine it’s typical of a 3 year old to forget her own items when faced with a treasure of such magnitude. So, true to form, I forgot to retrieve my purse. I took my Skipper doll and the Cabbage Patch diapers my mother had located and moved hurriedly to the next aisle. I was in dire need of Shrinky Dinks.

My mother failed to notice the absence of my purse until we reached the check-out lanes a good 15 minutes later.

“Meghan, where is your purse?”
“I dunno.”
“You just had it. Is it in the buggy?”
“I dunno.”

My mother searched frantically in the buggy without reward. We then scoured the toy aisles for any sign of my purse – or my fifty dollars. Needless to say, they were not located. Purloined by K-Mart scavengers, I have no doubt.

Mom, god love her, restrained herself until we reached the car, but then she laid into me with all the force of a Fire and Brimstone preacher on Sunday morning. The words “responsibility”, “maturity”, “disappointed” and “angry” were used several times. Several, several times.

She actually seemed more upset about the loss of the purse than the money.

“I can’t believe you lost that purse. Your Aunt Cheryl gave that to you. It matched your Cabbage Patch dress perfectly.”

It is, after all, all about the accessories.

Saturday, March 03, 2007

Rant Week: This Politically Incorrect Moment Brought to You By Bill Maher

I figured as long as I’d already shown my monsterous, ranting self to you people, I could get this off my chest, too.I would like to propose that:If you are over the age of 60 and/or handicapped you not be allowed on public road-ways during designated “rush hour” periods. I suggest 6:30 AM to 9:30 AM and 3:30 PM to 6:30 PM.

I don’t mind if you drive 55 MPH in the 70 MPH zone in the “fast” lane. I don’t mind if you slam on your brakes every third mile just because you anticipate someone might quickly exit the field of nothingness on your right onto the main highway. It’s your vehicle, drive it like you want.

Just DON’T, for the love of Pete, do so when myself and fifty million other people are trying to get to work. We have someplace to be. Someplace important. Someplace that provides our livelihood. We’re not leisure driving to the McDonald’s two cities away to meet our Class of ’48 band friend for coffee and a biscuit at 7:00 AM. Meet them at 10:00. Enjoy being able to sleep-in.


If you are from out of state, or even just out of city, and are unfamiliar with the highways and byways of our fair area, please – also – stay off the roads at these designated times (see above). I don’t have time for you to drive 20 MPH looking for Exit 134 and is it on the right or left and is this really the exit or has Mapquest messed up again and OH! There it is! On the left! And here I am in the far right lane. Brake! Swerve! Crash!


While we’re talking about Senior Citizens (whom I have much love for, I promise), please do not enter the grocery stores on the weekends. Most of you have all week to do your shopping at your slow, monotonous, push the buggy at .002 MPH pace while we’re at work. Blocking the aisle on a Saturday and debating over regular Prune Juice or Prune Juice NOW with Calcium! is not an option any longer. That should be done on Tuesdays.

That is all.
For now.