I’m absolutely sure tomorrow morning is going to be a complete shit show. Here’s why:

1.) The client’s mom is spanish-speaking

2.) Her kid, also Spanish-speaking, has been in jail or a psychiatric hospital since May and she hasnt lifted a finger to fix it

3.) The interpreter talks about quitting every other day

4.) The address that the parent gave us doesnt match the address that Google maps gives us

5.) I invited the case manager without telling anyone. (She’s Black American English speaker.)

6.) The interpreter needs to change the appointment to 10:30 because our supervisor would like her to attend an 8:00AM meeting and a 9:00AM meeting

7.) The interpreter told me she would call by the end of the day to let me know if she had been able to change the appointment with the kid’s mom from 10 to 10:30

8.) She hasnt called or responded to texts

9.) I decided to turn an hour long appointment into a two hour appointment without telling the parent or the interpreter

10.) I am trying to get 3 hours of work done in those two hours

11.) Except it’s six hours of work if you figure interpretation takes twice as long

12.) And finally, I ‘ve decided to drink 3 Blue Moons at midnight to address the falling asleep problem I’m having

So, like I said, think of me . . .it doesn’t really matter if you start thinking of me at 10 or 10:30, cause this craziness is sure to last until dinner . . . if mom doesnt cancel again.

That’s right, Mr. Smearcase, I said “mom” instead of “his mom”.

So, my BIL i s a police officer. For the first time last month, BIL drove his police cruiser home from work. He has also recently arrested some people that live in or near his development. Then, the other day, one of the signs marking an entrance to his development was spray-painted with gang symbols and anti-police epithets. A couple Sunday dinners ago, we discussed “those people”, “that kind of thing” and of course we worried that BIL and SIL were being targeted. They were talking about moving.

The three of us — Wifebian, BIL and myself — all work with low income black people. Except BIL is conservative and we are progressive. The three of us are abreast on current events and embrace our profession as an identity, so, we get into these, like, conversations where we try to relate to one another about, well . . .  our jobs. Also known as 50% of our lives. It can be hard. I’ve never been related to a racist, anti-immigrant police officer before. So, I’ve tried to understand how a republican thinks, a republican police officer, and his version of the world, which makes me think a lot about social work and my version of the world. Some days, talking with him makes me think I am totally naive and other days talking to him makes me think he is a total asshole.

But, what has my profession really taught me about the world? What is my job good for? Especially compared to what other professionals know about and what they get from their job. Like, my SIL, who’s a vet tech, can squeeze my dog’s anal glands and get us half-price vet meds and I am really grateful for that.  My college friend who interviews celebrities and my other college friend who is a traveling musician and the one who is on TV — they all get fantastic social capital — everyone thinks their job is awesome all day long and want to talk to them about their jobs. Free samples, travel, pictures of you on your Facebook page posing with Mark Summers — all serious perks creating real social capital. I think the term is “fringe” benefits.

But, then there is perspective. Everybody looks at life differently. But a lot of it depends on what your job is. Like, the other day, I met a guy who used to be a chemist and he worked for a company that researched the best way to make rubber adhere to metal. We had this whole talk about his new grill that I couldnt have had with anyone else at the party. Five minutes in a house and my dad could tell you how much it would cost to paint it. Five minutes in a math classroom and my wife can tell you if the kids will pass their end of grade exams. Our jobs give us fantastic insight into some very interesting and very small parts of the world.

My small, interesting part is people. People concern me. Poor ones. And justice, too. So, I ended up becoming a social worker. (Or is it that I’m a girl that I ended up a social worker, hard to say.) Sometimes I day dream about journalism or law, though. They do people and justice, too. And lawyers make money. (And journalists can too. They have a much better chance of getting a book deal than social workers.) But, they say lawyering promotes depression and journalists are in a worse position than social workers right now with like, job security. (That’s the awesome thing about poverty.) And we see what policing has done to my brother in law.

So, with social work, I get some perks, some capital. I mean, although nobody wants to talk to me about my job at  dinner parties, I get the sense that social work is considered honorable and valid, an actual profession. Especially if you’re one of those social workers that calls yourself a “therapist”. But, mostly, what I get from my job is insight into people and how to live a decent life. I get a lot of reality checks on how bad it can get and how good I have it. I get a sense of purpose. I mean, the alleviation  of human suffering is a pretty awesome gig. I get to constantly work to improve my own self and think about myself which is a real luxury. I get to hit the streets and meet hookers and drug dealers and wife beaters. That is, I dont have to stay in the box I was born in for more than two days at a time, which is an awesome privilege, really.

I also totally understand bad behavior. I can’t explain straw polls, or cell phone towers or seafood inspection, and I definitely can’t fix your TV, but I can tell you all about that son-of-a-bitch hoodlum and that crackhead bitch, yes I can. I can also give you some insight into those weirdos over there. And I’m really grateful for that. I can’t imagine how totally fucking irritating drug addicts would be if I didnt understand why they dont just fucking quit.

Basically, I think social work helps me stay cool. My fringe benefit is not being an asshole. It could just be the anti-depressants kicking in, but I think social work might be good for my mental health, for my relationships — to myself, my loved ones and the world. Dare I say, it’s good for my spirituality? And even if it is the meds talking, it’s the daily practice of social work that got me within ten feet of an SSRI to begin with. (I also used to be against OTC pain relievers, therapy and the DSM, too, if you can believe it. By the way, I had my first Lexapro orgasm this weekend! Woo hoo!)

Back to Sunday dinner. Wifebian tried to make the point that BIL needed to have relationships with black people outside of a patrol car, except she just ended up saying, “Yeah, well, I have more black friends than you!” And that wasnt very effective, you know, as a rhetorical strategy because BIL missed the point and asserted that his college roommate was black and so is his (patrol) partner so he clearly knows everything he needs to know about being black in a patrol car. Then, FIL kind of changed the subject and wondered if black people complain about white people as much as white people complain about black people, alluding that he and BIL indulged in their totally racist world views during their recent road trip together. That was a refreshing moment of insight and self-reflection. We all agreed that they probably do. (I tried to avoid citing Get On the Bus. It is the only empirical data I have regarding black male road trip behavior, but I can’t remember any of the scenes.)

We capped off the evening with middle SIL telling her favorite race story. It’s about the time she was vacuuming and a very large black man accidentally walked into her unlocked house. When he walked in, she looked up and said, “Oh my,” to which he replied, “My bad, my bad my bad.” SIL always says, “I never say ‘Oh, my,’ why did I say ‘Oh, my!’ ? ”  and then she makes fun of being so white. Then, I was like, “That black dude probably never says ‘ My bad’ and he’s telling his story like, ‘I never say “My bad!”  — what was I thinking!’ ” And we laughed. Which was fun since that’s the fourth time I’ve heard that story and it was nice to make a new joke that didnt come at the expense of someone else.

So, the conversation didnt go so badly, really. No one said the N word or cried, so . . . success? I guess I wish that my social work background gave me some sort of edge in conversations like that, but it doesnt, or hasn’t so far. I don’t change minds or swell hearts. Nobody at the table wanted to subvert the dominant paradigm or go volunteer after dessert. Could I get better at translating my experiences to a general audience, to average people in average situations like my BIL and SIL? I want somebody to say, “Oh you should talk to my SIL Mrs. Basement, she’s a social worker and she can totally explain learned helplessness to you.” Except it appears that I can’t. And most people don’t care to know. I need talking points!

My brother and sister-in-law ended up putting their house on the market last week. My sister in law says that she has finally become as racist as her husband. She is angry that she has to leave her first home because of those people and wishes they could just stay in their neighborhoods and we could just stay in ours.

Nonetheless, I wish her well. And I’m pretty sure that doesn’t make me naive.

Analytical analysis to follow sooner than expected due to a touch of sleeplessness. Tonight, while walking the dog, I had the sudden, delicious craving for a cold glass of white wine. But I knew Wifebian, who was already zonked out on the couch, would not come out with me. I thought, “I’ll just run to the store.” Which is a ludicrous, dope fiend thing to do on a Wednesday night at 8:30PM  before a 9:30 AM meeting. I did what we tell the people in recovery to do: “Hungry? Lonely? Angry? Tired?” I asked myself . . . well, a little hungry. And promptly forgot about it.

So, tonight, not being able to sleep, I asked myself, “Nap? Caffeine? Lexapro? Cold feet? Hungry? Well, a little hungry. I’m still hungry!” That was after I already took a half a valium, but I went ahead and ate a half a turkey sandwich anyway. Getting out all of my emotional hubba-ba-loo should really put this problem to bed — in a way that snuggling my wife’s butt, keeping my feet covered, counting sheep and reading Newsweek has not.

So, this guy, in Newsweek, quoted W.S. Merwin. In describing the process of writing a poem, our friend Merwin said, “Anyday now, I’ll make a knife out of this cloud.” And that’s kind of how I feel about my life. Yes, my life is a poem. And I would like it to take some sort of shape already. I know that change blah is the only blah constant blah blah, but I do crave a good five year run in which I have the same wife, the same house, and the same kids. And the same job. Should I be greedy and want the same car and the same dog and the same health, too, all at this mythical same time?

So, the deal is that there were two jobs, one in Haywood County working in two schools and one in Jackson County, about an hour away from Asheville. They didnt offer me the Haywood job, don’t know why, and I wouldnt take the Jackson job because it was really going to be three different jobs, in seven different places, spread out over hell’s half acre. So, that’s the thing with interviews. It’s a rare, rare agency that gives you any feedback into the hows and whys of your acceptance or rejection. So, it’s hard to get worked up about it. Rejection. Or even acceptance, really.

In addition to the 17,000 dollar pay cut (or was it 18,000?), they did not offer a health savings account so, baby-making was going to be put on a back burner with no pilot light. Foster care, too, since we wouldve had to find a studio apartment to shelter us as Wifebian waited tables, I spent my retirement on COBRA payments and our personal finances fell down around our ears.

So, back to plan “B”. (Asheville was plan D, Baltimore plan C — are you keeping track?) This mystery place another year, a foster kid or two, baby-making in January, supervision toward Maryland licensure and another roll of the dice come March, April and May. Baltimore has lots of opportunities. I will do my best to stay in good touch with this one Asheville agency.

Also, when I do start a new blog, to mark the advent of my new, possibly perfect and same life, rather than this bitter little slap dash series of emergencies, fuck ups and compromises I have going here, I will reveal my name, my face, my city AND I might have the best blog name of all time, thanks to W.S. Merwin: Knives and Clouds. Or Knives from Clouds. Or Clouds and Knives. I mean, does that sound too goth? How about just: Any Day Now.

I would like to thank Wifebian, as she has thanked me, for being so generous of spirit, flexible of thought and courageous of heart in the middle of all this crazy-ass wayfinding we’re doing. That’s another good blog name: Wayfinding. Or Dead Reckoning. How about Desire Line? Oooo, Desire Line . . . I like it!