Training

So time has passed and my passions about my miserable week in training have faded. I will share some of the highlights from my experience:
Day 1-3
I am shocked to see a couple of women who are out of touch with the times. One wears a red t-shirt with a pocket on the chest, along with some stretchy pants. The other has taken a lot of time to perfect her bangs... I know this from personal experience; it's not easy to get that much height without some time and some rave. I am only slightly relieved when I find out they are from less populated rural counties.

I am sitting through this training to address substance use. We discuss the buzz words: misuse, abuse, dependency. Should I be concerned that my neighbor smells like alcohol? It wasn't until a co-worker on the other side of her mentioned it to me that it hit me in the face. Maybe she's been taking more than a smoke break.

There are a group of people from my district and I am shocked and kind of embarrassed that J keeps talking about our division like it's back woods - no resources, no good referrals, with an ignorant bench. I am more annoyed and less embarrassed by day 3 when I realize the guy would and could complain about anything. He likes to hear himself talk. There are several of these kinds of people in this training. They have their soapboxes, their causes and they go on....and on....

I do find some entertainment, from the dull training and long winded rants, with exchanged glances with a co-worker. With one look we both knew exactly our sentiments and it is always good to know you're not the only one dying. We bonded through that experience... I will now call her a friend.

On my first day, after a long day, I headed to my hotel. The Ramada Inn. I looked it up online, as someone else had actually made the reservation. I arrived to find that the photographer had been extremely creative. The lobby did have an impressive front desk, but what had appeared to be the lounge was really a collection of chairs. I was sent to a room that required a drive around "The Knights Inn" motel: total sketch. The hotel is set up motorway inn style with each room facing the lot. I enter my room to find decor from 1982 and remnants of gum that had made its way well into the carpet. So much for relaxing in a comfy room for a week. This was going to be tough. My stay was short, after a long night of partyers next door I left the Ramada and hope to never return.

Day 3-4:
New set of co-workers, new set of training. This time, we all take up the full back row of the conference room like the bad kids in class. This training was a bit more interesting with a game of "big hands." There was a woman with extremely large extremities and as she waived and moved them about, we all got the giggles. I know, immature and cruel (I will avoid your judgment by not telling you how the goal was to get a picture of them and at one point there may be been at least 4 phones out and ready).

Upon arrival, finding that "breakfast provided" only meant mini-muffins and sub par coffee, a co-worker and I went on the hunt for a Starbucks. We found a Safeway. On my way down the chip aisle I felt my left foot slip. The next thing I knew, my hair was in my face, I was suddenly at the eye level of, not chips, but rice patties, and I felt like a pretzel. Upon realizing that I was, indeed, still alive I did the next logical thing, look up...sure enough there is a chip stocker just standing and staring at the mess of me in a pile on the shiny, slick floor. I collect myself and begin the struggle of pulling myself up...like a lady and mumble something about slippery floors. Somehow I managed to scrape a good portion of the top of my right foot, presumably from my left foot flailing and accosting it. To this day, we are still in the healing stages.

We (everyone from the district - 7), decided we'd eat lunch together on the break. After some trouble finding a restaurant, we then had terrible service. By the time we had eaten and paid our bills we would have been late to the next session. What happened next was strange. All 7 adults decided it might be best just to skip the next session instead of arriving late and causing a distraction. What happened next was disappointing. We had no idea what to do with ourselves. We (in 2 separate vehicles) followed each other down main thoroughfares, looking for something to do. We ended up at a coffee shop. It was horribly anti-climatic. And all this time, I thought all the cool kids who skipped were having great times... maybe not.

The last thing to say about training is the difference between a bunch of probation officers, who listen, get on soapboxes when they like, and challenge what the speaker presents. We're skeptical...it's what we do. In contrast, counselors are like an audience of baptist worshipers. They might as well be saying, "amen." "Oh!" they can't believe certain statistics. "No!" they are shocked by stories on injustice. And some of them (big hands in particular) treat this training as their own individual session, hollering out input, shouting out "that's right!" and adding their two cents even when it isn't encouraged.

Good Day for a Guinness

St. Patrick's Day is one of the best holidays of the year (falling behind all of the religious ones, of course, that celebrate Jesus). What's not to love about people pulling out their kelly green shirts and sweaters, an occasional green boa, having a green beer or a Guinness, singing Irish tunes and embracing that great Irish saint who taught Christianity by using a shamrock to represent the trinity?Last night I was invited to join Schelau and some friends at Jack Quinn's. It is where I have celebrated every St. Patrick's Day since I was 21 (except for that one year when S and I chose to celebrate in Denver because we thought the big city would bring more excitement...and it did... a crazy blizzard). I drove past Jack Quinn's and saw a line out the door. My thought: it couldn't possibly be worth it. I'll be forced to stand in line with some strangers in the freezing cold, probably have to pay a cover and then fight to order my Guinness that will be served luke warm in a plastic cup. I called it a night. My partying days are sporadic if not gone.Several years ago a line out the door would have meant it was going to totally rock on the inside...obviously because people are waiting to get in. A cover would have meant that the entertainment would be better or that only the committed would be on the other side of the door and the luke warm beer would've gone down so fast I wouldn't have noticed.

Cable

I've been out of town for the last week. What? an exciting trip? a vacation? I'm afraid it was just a long week of training in Denver. I've got a lot to say... hopefully I can share over the next couple of days.
To start: My skanky stay at the Ramada Inn gave me a window into the world of cable. I didn't have the tv on longer than 30 minutes and this is what I saw. Forgive me if this is old news to you, see "Bubbled" for an explanation of my ignorance.

Did you know that Flava Flav has his own TV show? In the bits of an episode I saw, he was in a hot tub with twins... and other ladies were fighting for his affections. Flava Flav (and the intrigued viewer audience) was shocked when one of the contestants tried to entice him by feeding him pigs feet. I know! He was disgusted too!

On MTV there is a show called "My Amore" where some tiny, unattractive italian man plays the role of the bachelor. I was horrified to watch as two women (both gorgeous. a brunette with long skinny legs. a blonde with a perfect body) cried and convulsed as they each waited to receive a token of his interest. No, not a rose. It was a cheap plastic Italian flag that the chosen clung to their breasts. I was repulsed that these women even cared. I don't know if it was the competition to win or the fear of rejection with an audience but whatever it was, it wasn't logical. Don't get me wrong, I can appreciate the power of a foreign accent, but let's not lose total focus ladies.

My Little Memories

Have you gotten that email forward? The one that lists (and if you're lucky has pictures) some of the highlights of growing up in the 80's? For me, the email is a fast, super packed jog through memory lane. He-man, popples, the smurfs. Man oh man what a glorious childhood.

There are others like me, who love to reminisce over those fond childhood icons. Heck, just recently a group of women I work with went on and on about the possibility of The New Kids on the Block going on tour. Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised when I was recently at a concert where I spotted a females tattooed arm with a scene of a care bear playing the guitar and in the same field, a my little pony... but I was.

Mail Order

The other night I was at Dillard's. Hello?! Can we super duper deals? I was in and around a dressing room where this older loud man was talking non-stop... the kind of guy who has a comment and opinion about everything and it is supposed to be funny - but isn't. I hear him say to a woman, "What? You're only coming out of the dressing room with one thing? I need you for a wife." I can hear him say something to his wife about how he doesn't like the way something fits. I don't think much of it, because I am caught up in my own search for a steal. He starts conversation with a young guy, also waiting for his wife and I am a little disturbed by the power of loud man and his influence over the young guy. It isn't until I head to the dressing room myself that I see loud man's wife. A beautiful blonde. She comes out in a lacey top and asks her loud other half what he thinks. He is totally unimpressed and says something like, "well, where you going to wear that?" What is gorgeous lady doing with loud man? It can't be because he's a great guy. Or that he treats her well. She even has an exotic foreign accent. Doesn't she notice he's over weight and wearing dated glasses? Not to mention that he's rude and loud. Loud man says to young guy, "My wife's from Siberia."

Rocky Mountain Horror Picture Show

Last night someone rang our door buzzer. After more than 3 years at this downtown apartment, we've learned some lessons. Never assume it is someone who has forgotten their key, or have a good reason for buzzing. To include examples would be time consuming. I got out of bed, pushed the "talk" button. This can be an easy way to figure out what's going on down below, because you can hear. No noise. It wasn't until the female cop walked down the stairs that I realized it may have been best to at least ask who was down there. What followed was confusing and somewhat uneventful from the view of our top floor window. Two girls, scared. Some talk of blood. Hyper vigilant Christina concluded there was a wounded animal (which, to note, was a little less dramatic than her suggestion that someone committed suicide the other night when she heard a loud bang in the middle of the night). Wounded animal. Back to bed. It wasn't until I went downstairs to do laundry early this morning that I realized much more had transpired......WARNING!!! IF YOU HAVE A WEAK DISPOSITION OR ARE MY MOTHER, DO NOT LOOK AT THE FOLLOWING PHOTOS.









A call to the CSPD surmised there was a break in of the basement apartment (which is currently being refinished); the suspect cut herself on glass but was obtained and presumably charged with burglary. In a conversation with the neighbors, they shared their theory it was a drunken female who broke in and that there are bloody shoes in a car in the parking lot and paperwork indicating the recent release from Cedar Springs. Neighbor lady thinks it was intentional and the drunken woman was looking for someone in particular. ... dun dun dun......