Blog Number Two on the wife's mac. The lighted keyboard is coming in handy, as it is 5 AM and I'm sitting in the dark, in an effort not to wake the wife. Let it be known that I did indeed configure and order a computer...it's on its way and should be here by the end of next week.
So, what did I order, you ask?
Hint: it does NOT have an apple on it.
Living without a real computer has been an absolute pain in the ass. It's left me crabby. I can't stand it. I feel so naked, so lonely, so pathetic. I may weep with happiness when the new PC laptop arrives at the door. I think the wife might weep with happiness, too--she can have her computer back for all eternity and not worry that I am getting fingerprints on the screen or scratching the exterior with whatever might cross my path.
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I didn't sleep very well last night as I was busy writing wedding vows in my dreams. I'm getting ready to officiate the wife's sister's wedding and thus the pressure is ON. Her family, comprised of super-charged zealots, is not quite sure they agree with me leading the way. It is my obligation to perform to their most holy standards while giving the bride and groom what they want...and, while writing something that I can actually read. I can't spew words I do not believe, so it's a delicate balance. (Well, for the right amount of money, I can spew anything someone wants--but, in this case, my officiating is a gift to them, so no unbelievable spewing at this event.) Words of wisdom: do not start such a project at 9 PM, lest you will dream about wedding vows and marriage blessings all night.
I finally gave up and snuck out of bed to get the wife's computer.
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As many of you know, I have the best job on earth, with oodles of fun and entertainment on a daily basis. Oh sure, there are days that are a pain, life-sucking and down right depressing, but the good outweigh the bad by such a large percentage that I can't really complain.
That said, I remind you that I mean absolutely no disrespect when I talk about my job. If you remember nothing else, remember this. (This is so important to me that I had to put it in red.) I find humor in the daily dealings but mean no disrespect those I service by finding such humor. This is my disclaimer to you. Don't you go and get all confused on me. Enjoy my antics for what they are and hold sacred those whom I serve.
Soooo, the other day at work, two grown men got into a fight over an ice cube tray. This fight had nothing to do with mental illness, so they can't claim it was their symptoms that led to the event. They were just two grown men mad about an ice cube tray. If I had to have a roommate I didn't pick, I might get into a fight over an ice cube tray, too. It's unfortunate, but our clients have to have roommates in many of our settings. I liken it to college, when some sadist in the student services office pairs you up with a roommate and by the end of the first three weeks you are wondering how the hell anyone ever paired the two of you together. There is not a lot of control when it comes to being a client with mental illness within a setting such as ours. It is what it is....
.....in this case, the ice cube tray gives a whole new meaning to the cold war.
Manly Man One (MM#1): removes ice cube tray from freezer in effort to create a cold, refreshing iced tea as part of his breakfast of champions.
Upon hearing the sound of ice cubes being freed from said ice cube tray, Manly Man Two (MM#2) storms out of bedroom, tells MM#1 (in a most snotty, condescending tone) to put ice cube tray back, as those aren't "his" ice cubes.
MM#1 makes a smarty pants remark, waves the ice cube tray in the air & then takes ice cubes, plopping them one by one into his glass. Smirking, MM#1 gives his best grade school taunt, including "Na-na-na-na-boo boo" and waves now-semi empty tray in MM#2's face.
(Well, maybe he didn't actually say na-na-na-ha-boo boo but I'm sure that was implied. Or, maybe he did.)
MM#2 tries to grab ice cube tray to protect HIS personally made ice cubes. He yells out, "THOSE AREN'T YOUR ICE CUBES!"
MM#1 continues to wave the now-empty ice cube tray in MM#2's face, complete with continued name-calling and proclamation that these are indeed his ice cubes, too.
MM#2 joins in name calling. (Two wrongs will make a right but it won't make ice.)
Third grade mentality ensues.
The men start physically wrestling over said ice cube tray.
The wrestling leads to pushing, which leads to poking, which leads to air slapping...and, then....
MM#1 has enough and punches MM#2 in the face.
(Remember, this is not about mental illness in any capacity. This about two grown men and their frustration, projected onto a most-innocent ice cube tray.)
Client B's nose becomes a volcano of blood. He runs to find staff, yelling, "he punched me!"
Manly Man #1 calls out, "he slapped me first!"
Manly Man #2 continues down hallway with bloody nose. "Did not!"
"Did, too!"
"Did not."
"Did too!"
MM#2 calls out from behind bloody towel, "I'm gonna press charges!"
Silence.
This is where I come in. As the on-call person, it is my duty to address such situations. Yes, my master's degree is needed to find resolution to cold wars such as this.
MM#2's nose is addressed by staff while MM#1 returns to apartment. Not missing a beat and not swimming in guilt or worry, he enjoys his cold glass of iced tea with the ice cubes in question.
Of course, MM#1 puts the ice cube tray back in the freezer.......empty.
BAM! Take that, MM#2!
I stand there and assess the situation. I stand in front of MM#1 and ask, "What the hell is going on?"
Instead of answering my question, MM#1 says MM#2 should be in a nursing home. I have no idea what this has to do with anything and certainly don't think MM#2 is even remotely in need of a nursing home. I am in need of a nursing home more than he is.
I turn to MM#2, ensuring that his nose is okay and in an effort to seek his side of the story. I ask him the same thing: "What the hell is going on?" (This is not quite the empathetic stance taught in college but these are grown men fighting over ice cubes. I have no time for empathy.)
MM#2 says MM#1 belongs in a group home.
Sigh. That doesn't answer my question, either. Forget empathy. I spit on empathy. I want to scream out "KNOCK IT OFF, YOU MORONS," but this would be VERY unethical & professionally inappropriate. I stare at one, then stare at the other. "So, you are punched him in the face over an ice cube tray."
MM#1 acknowledges he did indeed use the ice cubes and that yes, he does purposefully egg on MM#2. "Heck, I even eat his food and use his stuff." MM#1 laughs.
Bad, bad move. Shouldn't have laughed, big boy.
MM#2 gets up and calls the police.
Sigh. It's going to be a long on-call shift.
The Police arrive and, thanks to their understanding of our program, try not to laugh and somehow remain respectful. As both clients report that the other hit them first and as there were no witnesses, they (thankfully) don't take report. They ask that the men be separated for the night. I concur.
I devise a plan and separate the boys for the night. I hate to do this as it just reinforces their naughty behavior, but I can't leave them in the same apartment. I tell them, with a stern voice and a scowl on my face, that they will "see the principal" in the morning to learn of their fate. They know what I mean--they will meet with the supervisor of the site and it probably won't be happy.
I get in my car and return home, chuckling about how much I really do love my job.
During the short ride home, I realize....
......No one ever re-filled the ice cube tray.
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