Halloween & things

I spent the evening at the H4TCI. Note to self: Do not feed candy to people with Bipolar disorder who are prone to mania.

This morning, walking the dog, a woman setting up the outdoor tables (and it was cold!) said, "OH, what a *cutie*!" as I walked past.

I knew she was talking about the pup, but I replied, Thank you! I assume you were talking about me, right?

"Oh yes, of course. It wasn't the *dog* I was talking about," she said, laughing. "I'm not gay, but you're pretty, too."

I love that "I'm not gay" thing.

Oddly, several blocks away and 40 minutes later, I popped in to talk to The Florist for a few minutes. She had come over the other night for drinks, and we were supposed to do a death & dying interview but never got to it. So I wanted to find out when we could do that. For whatever reason, she made a tangential comment: "Do you remember those 'I'm straight but not narrow' buttons people used to wear? It got to where if I saw one of those, I felt like slapping the person."

She's going to be difficult to interview. She tells amazing stories that slide one right into another. It will be hard to keep her on point.

But I digress.

Gays.

This is my last thought for the night: Recently, there has been a "gay sex scandal" all over the TV news here. It involves a male Washington state representative who had sex with a guy -- perhaps while the lawmaker was wearing a red sequined lingere top and heels?

There seems to be some question about whether the cash exchanged as a result of this sexual encounter was payment for prostitution or was political extortion. Either way, the story has been on the news for several nights, always being referred to as the "gay sex scandal."

Listen here, my heterosexual friends. I would just like to point out, especially to those of you who think gays don't really face all *that much* discrimination in our society: Each time a "gay sex scandal" hits the news, it reminds me of how much more progress yet needs making.

The day it is just a "sex scandal" -- rather than a "gay sex scandal" -- I will think we have made real progress. (Except for the Puritanical part where sex (period!) is still scandalous. That is a battle all of us deserve to win.) In the meantime, don't tell me there isn't still *serious* systemic oppression of gays, even up here in the lilly white liberal Pacific Northwest. It's been right there on TV every night this week. And it's pathetic.

UCM: Zen-master therapist

This morning in group supervision at my internship site, one of the other interns described "having a melt down" last week and "crying in the bathroom or the mailroom" at intervals throughout the day. The cause of her consternation apparently was:

-- The lack of *any* orientation to the computer system, which has mental health-related software that is unfamiliar to all the interns (which has sucked for all of us)

-- The lack of *meaningful* orientation to all the paperwork required by Medicare for us to continue giving services to our clients (which sucks in more ways than you can imagine, even when you know what all the paperwork is and when to complete it)

-- The fact that she has only received *two hours* of individual supervision since the beginning of September (whereas I have been getting one hour a week, per my school's requirements)

-- Her new-therapist jitters that leave her feeling like she has no clue what she's doing (one of the most important reasons to have regular, reliable, useful individual supervision)

-- A strange setup wherein my peer has no regular access to a treatment room (an important reminder that I should not add an extra day to my internship on the day she's there, because obviously t'ain't no room at the inn...)

-- An even more peculiar setup whereby she sits at one desk and her phone rings at another which is all the way across the office (which she called a "minor incovenience").

I feel for my peer, I really do. If I didn't have an office in which to meet clients and my phone rang in another part of the building, I'd be making a stink. I'm not sure I'd be crying in the mailroom, but those things would add needless stress to what is already a stressful situation.

The other intern started going on about how difficult it is for "all of us." But then they both looked at me and one of them said, "I'll bet UCM has a totally different take."

I'm sorry to say, I replied, but I'm actually doing pretty good.

"I *knew* you would say that!" the stressed-to-crying intern said. "You are *always* so calm and so centered within yourself. You *never* get flustered!"

Don't get me wrong, I said, I have my moments. Trust me.

"That may be," she replied, "but I can't imagine we're ever going to see one of them. You are so peaceful. Whatever your secret is, I wish you would share it!"

Perhaps it's just that I don't give a shit.

Eyebrows go up in the room.

I mean: Yes, this paperwork is outrageous and, on the surface, overwhelming. Yes, there are all these strange Medicare requirements. I would not say it's a 'minor inconvenience' that you have neither a therapy room nor a phone that rings where you can actually hear and access it. Those things are fundamental. But when it comes down to it, all that paperwork and bureaucracy and all the stuff we don't even know that we don't know about? Well, as far as I see it, if I fuck up some paperwork, I expect someone will tell me eventually. Until then, I really don't give a shit -- not when it comes to sitting down and being with the client. That's what my job is, and I'm not even being paid to do it. So....

Fortunately, our group supervisor is not the same kind of namby-pamby Stepford therapist I had doing group supervision at my practicum last summer. He can take a little "shit" here and a little "fuck" there. But more to the point, he supported what I was saying completely: You can't know what you don't know, and you can't even be expected to ask questions about things that are outside of your sphere of understanding that there are even questions to be asked. Someone has to TELL YOU stuff at one point or another. Once a foundation is properly laid, then you have a basis from which to ask questions.

But we didn't get that on accounts of all the turnover in staffing that went down in September.

It has been a rough transition, and there were a couple of weeks back at the start when I was wondering when I would be able to see clients and how they would be assigned to me. Then, stuff started to fall into place, sometimes in surprising ways, and I've been seeing clients pretty regularly.

Despite the evaluation of my peers that I have some kind of zen-like demeanor, I have a serious concern about whether I will get enough client contact hours over the next nine months to meet the requirements of my school and state licensing. If I don't, I'll have to extend my stay at the site, and there is no way I can actually afford to do that. This spring is the last term for which I can get student loans, so I have to be done and working full-time by June. That's all there is to it. This is a source of stress for me.

But it's also something I can't carry around with me in my day-to-day life, especially not when I'm working.

I'm not sure if it's a matter of me being zen-like or whether it's a remarkable ability to dissociate and still somehow remain "present" -- if there's even a difference between the two -- but I learned a long time ago how to put most, if not all, of my personal shit aside and focus on the work of being with people. Therapy requires it, and in many ways, journalism did, too.

There's some kind of switch I learned to flip a long time ago, and it seems to be more valuable and more powerful than I ever realized.

Nevertheless, I was still surprised tonight when, telling all this to S2, she said, "See, I told you, you've got it going on!" I thought, given her experience of me as a highly vulnerable and agonizing entity at times, she would be amused to think others saw that in me. I thought she might recognize it as fraud.

Isn't that funny?

I suppose that's my own projection, really. I know better than to think I'm a fraud. I know from my insides out that what my peers are noticing is really there. I *am* calm, especially compared to them on a surface level. But I am also, in this environment, a strikingly composed, generally unflappable person.

My projection around S2 is simply that she has seen my wiggly, untidy insides in other areas of my life. She has seen me go through a year of firey personal torment marinated in a lot of death and loneliness. She knows what the overwhelmed me looks like. I thought, perhaps, that such knowledge meant that she would no longer be able to see the calm competence that I'm capable of maintaining, as well.

Why do I think myself -- and my friends -- so one-dimensional at times? It's probably that part of me that has difficulty forgiving myself for perceived weaknesses. Also, I think that I got so much BULLSHIT thrown at me by the aforementioned Stepford counselors in my practicum and had to deal with so much strange feedback around it that it distorted the lens through which I was able to perceive my strengths.

It's important in this work to have a solid grasp on both my strengths and my ... uh, ... "areas of development."

One truth about me that can be boiled down and bottled is just what I asserted rather vehemently to one of the Stepford counselors: I know the difference between being a student and being a therapist. I have a professional persona that doesn't require any significant effort to maintain -- no more than any other aspect of myself. Put me in a situation, I usually do what I believe the situation calls for.

In my estimation, being a therapist requires self-awareness, being calm and centered and, above all, being focused on the client rather than on my own riff-raff.

There are days when this work really wears me down. I've already learned that I'm subject to feeling the emotional turmoil of my clients. But I've also learned that engaging in a determined practice of self care is not just "a way" to deal with all that stuff, it's essential. Beyond getting good sleep, eating well and doing yoga, it takes serious mental work to maintain one's personal boundaries while also maintaining meaningful connection with clients. It's a matter of self-preservation and protection.

Now.

If only I could figure out how to protect my nose from a client who smells a bit odd, *that* would be zen-like. Until the poo-curious odor no longer raises the hair on the back of my neck, I'll always have some distress. But if you see me crying in the mailroom after a session with him, rest assured it's probably just my eyes watering.

No make-up me

I was getting my hair done yesterday, and the woman who has cut my hair for about eight years asked me how old I am. I asked her to guess.

She started at 33. When I raised my brows, which she was just starting to wax at the moment, she said, "Oh, you're not that old, are you? What? 31?"

I shook my head, and she kept guessing. She never got above 34.

I laughed and told her the truth: 39. And I was tickled. It's the second time in a month that someone guessed my age at least five years younger than I really am.

For me, this is a huge turnaround. Just two years ago, I was regularly being confused for XGF's *mother.* No doubt, part of the change is due to what I've been doing to my hair: keeping it longer and keeping it colored. I used to be exceptionally grey for my age, and wore my hair like a featureless little helmet.

Thus, it was all the more amusing to me this afternoon when one of the clinicians at my internship site told me she figured me for 34. When I told her I was 39, she seemed surprised. But it helped explain why she, who is 28, and I do not have even remotely similar musical influences in adolescence.

This evening on my dog walk, I was musing about how radically different people perceive my age to be than they once did. And as a tangent, I got to thinking about a woman I know who wears a lot of makeup. When I crossed paths with her recently, the lighting of our location and the closeness with which we stood gave me an unusually close look at the quality of skin beneath her makeup. She's just a year or two older than me, but she is hiding a lot of lines.

I'm not so much happy about being mistaken as *younger* than I am as I am for finally not being mistaken for being so much older. Especially not for my partner's mom. That was bad. It was also bad for my outlook. Looking more my age seems to have encouraged me to be more active and to put a little more thought into how I dress.

But the one thing I haven't started doing -- and don't imagine I will anytime soon -- is wear makeup. I tried to use it a couple times in high school, mainly to cover pimples, but I never really took to the process of putting on makeup.

The other week, HGM came over to play and to do a death & dying interview one night, and we started talking about Halloween costumes. He went to my medicine cabinet, looking for some makeup to prove to himself that he could turn me into Betty Page. When he learned I had nothing but a tinted tube of Burt's Bees lip balm, he was appalled. "How can you not have *any* makeup?" he asked, sounding sincerely shocked.

I was shocked that he would find it surprising.

I was thinking about that on my dog walk, that and the woman with the extra heavy makeup. I realized that I've been blessed with something special: Even though I haven't had great self-confidence about my appearance in terms of bone structure and body fat, I have never felt like I need makeup. My complexion has always been a pretty pleasing color, and my eyes have always had enough presence to stand on their own.

Sure, you might somehow make me look "better" with a load of makeup, but I have *never* felt like I needed it. That's a nice thing to realize.

The rest of me still needs work, though. And you can be damn sure that I'm gonna keep coloring this sweet hair of mine.

I'm just saying.

Lost Weekend

There were three social outings: one at a dive bar, one at a pub, one at a great little live music venue down the street.

There were also three social visits at my place, which involved three viewings of my most recent collage creation (and, I will admit, a continuing desire on my part to futz with it, even though I'm allegedly "done"). Two of the visits included interviews about death and dying. One also involved dinner and ended in the wee, wee hours -- 6 a.m. this morning -- after I received a massage with a "homemade" oil composed of olive oil, vanilla extract and ground ginger. Kinda made my sheets like a fragrant Shroud of Turin when all was said and done.

The weekend included a fair amount of alcohol: Six beers over the course of three outings. Several glasses of wine. And there's was some assistance from Mother Nature's herbal armory.

Also, there were more lesbians or otherwise queer girls than to which I've become accustomed. The last one to cross my path tonight was none other than the "feral lesbian" I met at a classmate's birthday party a few weeks ago. I have to say that the woman intrigues me. We are from diferrent planets: she's older, fairly goth and I think she would probably be able to show me a thing or two that I've never seen. Tonight's encounter was brief, but I have a feeling there will be more.

Last weekend, I had dinner one night with Dr. M. At one point in the conversation, as I was describing something about The Florist, Dr. M said, "Well, she sounds like she'd be a perfect addition to your strange ... uh, menagerie." The people who've become my friends over the years -- both here and in California -- are widly disparate in their backgrounds, lifestyles and perspectives. Looking around at the new social circles to which I'm being introduced as a result of my internship, I suspect my "menagerie" is likely to become increasingly diverse.

Except for this one thing: The heavy, *heavy* presence of people connected to psychology or social work. But as The Good Witch pointed out to me yesterday: If I didn't want to socialize with that crowd, I probably shouldn't have gone off and paid $40,000 for the pleasure of becoming one of them.

Well. That's it for me. Life has gotten hectic with my internship and some of the shifts I'm working -- and all the stuff I'm now doing and writing around my death & dying study -- I'm not posting as frequently as I have been. And then, when the weekend's been lost and there's probably still a little too much alcohol in my system, you end up with rambling shit like this. Please bear with me.

Forgive me, readers.

Sometimes, when my writing muscles go lax and my brain is occupied by other things, the existence of this blog drives home all the residual weight of having been raised a Catholic.

In other words, I feel guilty for not posting.

For the past couple weeks, my brain has been overwhelmed with input (reading, reading, reading and clients, clients, clients) and my time has been occupied by internship, work and what The Good Witch would lovingly call my "birth season," a period of time during which birthday celebrations are conducted rather than just a single day.

And also, I have been trying to make new friends along the way. Such as with The Florist. It's not like it's taking that much of my time -- although that woman can talk circles around me -- but I noticed with some alarm recently that almost ALL of my friends here in town are somehow related to psychology. The only one who isn't is The Clairvoyant, who's a massage therapist. But even with her, the lion's share of our conversation seems to be related to psychology, hypnosis, working with people and the travails of having a private practice.

So The Florist is rather sweet. She's a highly entertaining, somewhat crazy woman whose intelligence shines through despite the cognitive impairments she sustained from a bout of malaria that went untreated for a little too long. Most importantly, she doesn't know much about psychology or psychotherapy, so we don't talk about it very much. I tell her little stories about clients, to which she replies, "I don't know what 'psychotic' means, actually. What is it?" And then, I give her an example and she looks at me and says, "I could *never* do what you do." And then, that's the end of that.

I'll stop into her shop a few days a week and say hello, and she'll tell me a story from her life or her day -- colorful, amusing stuff with the delivery of a Southerner chewing the fat on the front porch -- and for me, it's like having a little escape because it has *nothing* to do with my school, my job or my internship. Her stories are usually funny and light-hearted, too, which stands in stark contrast to most of my other conversations.

It occurs to me how much I need to have people in my life who are not related to my future profession, if only for the sake of having a conversation with a "regular" person -- meaning: neither therapist, future therapist, therapist teacher/supervisor or ... client.

Most of my friends who recently graduated are living hectic lives and feeling the stress of trying to re-enter the workforce after having been full-time students and part-time workers for a couple of years. Those who are at the same point as me -- interning -- seem to be struggling to juggle internship, classes, family and whatever else they've got going on. And then, there are those who are just busy with family and school stuff or dating politicians.

Everyone has something going on. And it feels like lately, most of my "social" interactions have been composed primarily of these various and sundry friends telling me how stressed they are. One has taken to calling me about once a week or so and doing what I think of as a "download," wherein she tells me everything that's stressing her out and vents for a bit until she feels better.

I can't complain. I do that, too. But lately, I've noticed that it's gotten a lot more intense in terms of what's going into these ears of mine -- and that much less is coming out of my mouth.

I still have friends with whom I get to TALK, rather than always listening. But after the past couple of weeks, I feel like if I were to do a self-portrait at this moment, I would be mostly ears, between which would be three large eyes set in a triangle over a very small mouth.

Who would've ever thought that would be me?

But it is.

For the most part, I enjoy it. People say interesting things. It's nice, too, to feel useful for those who need to vent some of their stress. I really don't mind it.

What I am finding difficult, however, is having this existence without a release valve of my own at home. I talk to my pup a lot, but he's not the best listener. He's only truly attentive when there's food involved. I've been trying to figure out how I'm going to manage this on a long-term basis, but I have no idea.

The blog isn't cutting it, that's for sure.

I'm too tired to write any more.

To correct an error? Or not?

A few days late, a birthday card arrived in the mail today from my father.

With a multitude of exclamation points -- and even an uncharacteristic smiley face -- he congratulated and *teased* me about my birthday. Of all things, he told me I would "get used to" my advancing age. But he softened the pain by sending me a fat gift card.

I'm not sure what to do about it, though.

See, my dad believes I've just turned 40.

And I haven't. I'm 39. It was my older sister, my dad's first child, who turned 40 this year.

Several thoughts have found space in my mind about this. But I suppose the main one is pretty simple: Should I tell him? And if so, how?

While paint dries

This has been quite the weekend.

I celebrated my birthday on Friday, which I started by picking up a gigantic bouquet of flowers from The Florist. It was spilling with lavendar and orange orchids, callas and two fragrant varieties of lillies and a dozen roses I had ordered because I so love the yellow veining in their dark burgundy leaves. Really beautiful. They were supposed to be a gift to myself, but The Florist gave me such a deep discount on the flowers that they essentially became a gift from someone else.

Friday night, HGM took me to dinner at a nice French bistro and surprised me by inviting some other friends. Sadly, one was wickedly sick and could not attend. (Get better soon, True Tomato. You sounded pretty nasty.) Dr. R, Bill Clinton, HGM and I enjoyed a very fine meal and went out for drinks afterward. Then, after Dr. R and BC hit the road, HGM and I returned to my neighborhood and went to a bar to chat for a couple hours. He's very engaging.

Saturday, I woke up and had a deliciously lazy laundry day that included a stop in to tell The Florist how much I liked and appreciated the bouquet. She ended up handing me one more flower for the arrangement, a pink mink. "I was looking for sexually suggestive flowers and found these, so I bought six," she said. "This one is yours."

A love of sexually suggestive flowers is something she and I share. This one certainly fits the bill, with the velvety dark fringe topping its soft pink tongue-like petals. When she handed it to me, I touched it with my fingers tenderly, then after feeling the softeness of it, put it to my face immediately. What a heavenly texture. All the better it should give just a bit more meaning to the term "tipping the velvet."

On Saturday evening, I met up with Rather Shy Classmate and King Rex -- and later, another classmate -- at a Scottish pub not too far from my place. We enjoyed a few drinks, some Scottish food and each other's company for several hours before I finally went home to crash.

This morning, I woke up feeling the last of the Guinness Stout in my tummy, took the dog for a walk and went to buy a birthday gift for someone else. Then, this afternoon, I had coffee with S2, and she gave me a gift sure to undermine The Clairvoyant's income from me: one of those massagers that kneads the nuts out of your back when you strap it to a chair. She reminded me of a day we went to the mall last year and sat in the chairs at Brookstone for a LONG time -- it was one of the hardest things I've ever done, leaving that chair .... The thing was kind of molesting me, if you know what I mean. Really very fun.

After I parted company with S2, I came home and made some decisions about completing -- finally -- a little art project that I've been working on for several months. I would add something to it and put it away. I made a decision a couple weeks ago to finish it before the end of my birthday weekend. Finishing it now is an intentionally symbolic act. I see completion of this piece as a way of telling the universe I'm done with a particular phase of my life, which the art represents.

Then, I went to a birthday party for one of my classmates, who I don't know very well but have socialized with a couple of times. She recently completed her internship at the same site where I'm interning now, so I ended up meeting and talking with some of the clinicians there. One of them was a bright-eyed, naive-looking mid-20s therapist who was drinking water and had an air of Mormonism. The other, one I sit next to in the office on Fridays, is a woman of about 28 with a Pat Benatar/goth/citified and professionalized pierced punk pastiche about her. Two totally different characters. I liked the one with the pierced tongue and the queer girlfriend better.

They introduced me to their friend, who described herself to me as a "feral" lesbian. She had a name that evoked Catholicism to me: Trinity. Trinity told me she hangs out on my street a lot and informed me that there are a lot of "hot, older lesbians" stalking my neck of the woods. I asked that should we run into one another on the street, she point some out to me.

Then, like a total dork, I showed her a photo of the pup that was in my cell phone and said, Everyone on the street knows me by my dog. Here's his photo so you'll recognize me when we meet on the street, where the light is so much different.(We were in a tiny bar lit exclusively by candles and an outside street light.)

After a while, I got tired from all the socializing and the drinking I've done in the past few days and headed home. Here, I did some of the final work to my piece. Right now, I'm just waiting for the paint to dry so I can add one last element and complete the piece.

I'll finish it before I sleep tonight. And then put everything, myself included, to rest.

Cell phone serenade & etc

I had dinner tonight with YogaGirl, who joined me at a little wine bar in SE PDX to celebrate my birthday. Had a few flights of wine, some really delicious (but a bit salty) polenta with wild mushrooms and spinach, a few interesting appetizers and creme brulee for dessert.

I'm taking two days to indulge my inner dairy fairy, and then, with the commencement of my 39th year, I must re-enter the dairy-free subculture.

I guess that's what happens by the time you're this age. What you put into the old body starts to matter a lot more, affects you differently and sometimes forces you to pay a steep price.

Otherwise, things are swell. It's not saying much, but my body feels better now than it has in years. Thanks to my twice-daily dog walks and my increasing yoga practice, I'm more fit than I've been in a long, long time. (A broken ankle 15 years ago was a real set-back, to say the least.) And thanks to finally growing out my hair and deciding to color it, my locks are more jaunty and beautiful than they've been since I was in my early teens. I'm looking pretty spiffy, all things considered.

Or at least, The Florist who owns the shop across the street made sure I felt that way. I went to order some flowers from her the other day, and she asked how old I was. I suggested she guess, and she replied, "Well, you know, I call it like I see it. There's no put-on here, so if you really want me to say...," then paused so if I could stop her if I felt like it before adding, "...I'd put you at about 34."

34?! I replied.

"Did I guess high?" she asked. "Because I didn't mean to. That was an honest guess. What are you, 29?"

I laughed.

"You know, people intentionally guess low all the time, and I'm not one of those people," she said.

What do people normally guess for you? I asked, knowing her to be 41.

"As far as I can tell, '38' seems to be a way of saying, 'I think you're probably 45, but I really have no fucking clue,' " The Florist replied. Then she looked at me, "Well, go ahead and tell me. I'm not scared of your funny little number, whatever it is."

I'm turing 39.

She looked at me with a touch of surprise. One of the things I like about The Florist is that she's pretty transparent. I can tell she withholds, but it's also pretty obvious to me that she stands behind whatever comes out of her mouth, that she says what she means. So even though I'm feeling all happy that someone guessed me to be five years younger -- especially when just a few years ago, I was regularly being mistaken for being XGF's *mom* -- I can also take some measure of satisfaction in knowing she wasn't trying to flatter me.

That kinda shit is a birthday gift all unto itself.

Oddly, I got more calls wishing me a Happy Birthday today than I expected even to get tomorrow.

Both of my parents seem to have gotten the date confused -- or just couldn't WAIT to wish me good tidings (rather unlikely) -- and called me today. My dad at least had some explanation: "I have a card for you, but I think I have the wrong address." And sure enough, he did. My mom just was being ... convenient. (No such thing as a day being special anyway!)

But I digress.

I also got my first-ever cell phone serenade (such were the plans they made!). Four of my classmates were out drinking at a bar after school tonight and apparently had planned on me joining them. They called last night to invite me, but I already had plans with YogaGirl, so I begged out. The one who called didn't mention they were attempting to throw me an impromptu party.

So tonight, they went to a bar with the cake one had gotten last night, and they phoned me up. I had just gotten back from hanging out with YogaGirl and was walking my dog down the street when I saw the name of the classmate who invited me out -- someone I rarely ever speak to -- flash on my phone. I answered it.

She said, "UCM?"

Hey, what's up? I replied.

"Happy bithday to you," she started to sing. Then she pulled the phone away from her head, and I heard a chorus of deep male voices sing the song in its entirety. I was floored. They sang pretty well, and even on the cell phone, they sounded good. When they were done, the classmate who called passed the phone around to the singers -- three guys, including King Rex. One of them mentioned how moist was the cake they were eating in my honor, a birthday girl in absentia. I was really touched.

I have plans for tomorrow, but how they will go down is anyone's guess. To celebrate, I'll eat and drink with friends (and maybe one ... politician). In terms of work, I believe I'll be seeing one of my first clients with Schizoaffective Disorder. Or maybe one with Major Depressive Disorder. Someone with Bipolar, anyway? For all I know, I'll have all three! (And they will no doubt make me feel all the better, despite my advancing age, for being so considerably *more* fucked up than I've ever managed to be on the worst days of my worst years. God bless 'em!)

Because I won't have any time tomorrow to treat myself to my own personal delights, I took care of one only-I-can-do-it-for-myself indulgence today. I went to Columbia's mothership, and I purchase two new jackets (which are actually three jackets and one independent fur collar if you break them down). I had to compromise on my desire for something "fashionable" by getting something "attractive and technical," but I otherwise got what I wanted. Cost me a buttload, but for what I (and the pup's walking routine, rain or shine) require in winter, I've learned that it's worth every single fucking penny.

And then, reading the DSM-IV-TR this evening, I received one other gift. It is also a gift from myself. It seems that at some point during my training in diagnosis of mental illnesses, I wrote down the following words on a piece of scrap paper and stuck it in my DSM:

How do crazy people get through the forest?

They take the psychopath.

And I wonder why one of my professors thinks I'm "cynical" about clients. I imagine it's because he doesn't discern much nuance between cynical and ... just funnny.