understanding (n.)

Warning:  Slightly melodramatic post ahead.

You guys know what a Presbytery service is?

A presbytery is a governing body of church leaders; however, in the church, a "presbytery service" is (can be) one in which church elders have a time of formal prophecy for you.   I know.  It sounds odd.  Despite your faith backgrounds, you'll just have to take my word that it can be an entirely validating experience.

I took part in my last one in 2002.  Pastor Bob McGregor from City Harvest in Vancouver, WA killed it - right on the money.  I'd never met Bob before, but he quietly informed me I worked with people in crisis (at the time I was working with DV victims) and that I had known a lot of pain.  According to Bob,  I would know a lot of pain in the future (enter 2007), but I would go back to graduate school and I would counsel families.

I've held on to that for 9 years, which, at times, has sucked.  And that's my clinical term.  Definite low spots since early 2007.

But let's revisit where I'm at:

I went through a terrible two years, but
now I'm in grad school and
I've just been offered an internship position at my first choice.

I got the phone call this afternoon, right before I was set to lead a group on "Americans' Relationship with the Muslim Community."  The lady who interviewed me last week said, "So, I haven't had a chance to check your references, but I can't leave you hanging.  Pending a good reference check, we'd love to have you here.  I really like you and you'll fit well with the agency."

Next year I'll be providing individual counseling (to kids) and family counseling (to kids and families) in NE Portland.  This is what I came to school to do -- I've waited 9 years to do this.  It's strange to remember a time when I couldn't think past the end of the week when, now, I can't wait to see what next year holds.

(Hopefully it also holds a mouse free apartment, an improved golf game, and a little bit of icing for one of my ring fingers, but we'll start with this internship.  Enter sigh of relief and a well of gratitude here.)

They terrify me.

Simple as that.

When I was in high school we lived on a farm in Eastern Oregon, and every time they cut the fields, the mice would flee to our basement in droves.  In my head, it was like watching a 1950s horror movie.  Now that I'm 32, I realize logically that there weren't that many.  Emotionally, however ...

Two nights ago I was sitting in my small, graduate student apartment, making some desperately needed updates to this blog, when I looked casually over my right shoulder to see a gopher sized rodent lazily trundle across my kitchen floor.  I did what any mature, grown up 30 something woman living on her own would do:  I shrieked and tore out of the apartment, wearing only socks, raced through the rain to pound furiously on my landlord's door.

My landlord, who is a spunky, confident woman in her early 60s, grabbed a broom, set her jaw and said, "Let's go get it."

She broke through the front door of my apartment while I hopped around outside, freezing with soaked socks.  Two seconds later she hollered, "I see it!!"

And then,

"Lisa?  This thing is so tiny.  And fast.  I don't know that I'll be able to get it out.  Squirrels are easier."

Turns out my imagination may have blown the size of the little guy out of proportion.  We chased that thing for 2.5 hours.  Tore up my apartment.  Emptied out closets.  Went and got my landlord's cats from upstairs, who casually sat, twitched their tails and, without moving, watched the thing run in front of them.  We never got it.  What could I do?  I thanked my landlord profusely for trying to help and then got in my car to go buy mouse traps.

And I called Shoes (because what  other logical thing is there to do than to call your partner who lives 4 hours away and has a district court docket first thing the next morning?).  Shoes was less than helpful.  Not unsympathetic, but unhelpful in the, "Well.  We could name him Gary" type of way.

I arrived home, gingerly (somewhat nauseously)  baited the traps and put them down.  I sat on the bed.  And waited.  And waited. And when 45 minutes had gone by and nothing had happened, I cautiously started to clean up my torn apart apartment.  But.  When I put my coat away in the hall closet, there was a furious scurrying at the back.  I slammed the door, threw down a blanket in front of it to stop the gap underneath and raced back upstairs to pound on my landlord's door again.

She couldn't find it.

With nothing left to do, I shoved towels in all of the door cracks, left all the lights on, and went to bed.  I laid in bed, cowering, my heart racing.  The last time I looked at the clock, it was 12:30 and I know I woke up 5 times before my alarm goes off at 5:45.
Left all of the lights on.
Heard one of the traps snap shut in the middle of the night.
Pulled the blanket over my head.

I haven't seen one since then, but the cats upstairs have since killed 2.

They're there.

I know they're there.

We're undergoing a bit of construction here at this blog.  Looks a little sloppy and redundant in places.  Apologies and it will look better soon.  What can I say?  I wanted to get it all out in one big push, and still have time for socioemotional selectivity theory, but then a 4 legged, long tailed creature appeared in my kitchen and my remodel was quickly abandoned to show this little guy (who scares the poop out of me) who's the real sheriff.

(I'm pretending the real sheriff is me).

Remodel abandoned & I'm behind on my research.   What a carefully constructed life I have.

I'll post soon about the mouse Shoes has named Gary.  The mouse doesn't deserve a name.  Shoes deserves a time out.

... and I am not a patient waiter by any stretch of the imagination ...

I will tell you that it was my full sister's Birthday this week and the night we had out was filled with twists, turns, a fancy dinner, an Irish pub with Irish music, and a club with dueling pianos and pianists willing to take any song request imaginable.

Kudos to the waitress who sang Snoop Dogg; I'm still amazed.

We never do fancy downtown because we are very serious students who never go out.

But since it was a special occasion ...



Happy Birthday, Cheryl.  Welcome to this side of 30.  While my 20s were fabulous, the 30s have been even better.  To you!

Last year at about this time I was interviewing for my first year of internship.  Your first year you go where they tell you.  Your first year they put you with a client population you haven't worked with before and you're not supposed to ask for a specific placement.  That is the What.

But I did.  I did ask.  Because I'm a good student with 9 years of bachelor level social work experience.  A 4.0 graduate student in the only program of its kind in Oregon (it's a little hubris-y in here).  And the worst they could tell me was no.  But they didn't tell me no -- they told me yes and arranged for an interview with a Hospice and Bereavement Placement.

The interview went terribly.

Ter.ri.bly.

Something was just off, you know?  That's the worst ... when you can feel it slipping away and you're not sure why and you don't really know how to get it back on track.  Not surprisingly, the phone call I received a week later informed me that they had chosen someone else for their internship.

I was crushed.  I told them I was glad they had found somebody right for their position and asked them if they had any feedback for me (knowing I would have to interview again).  Their answer could not have surprised me more.  They said, "Oh, nothing, actually.  You said everything right.  We just aren't looking for someone with as much work experience as you have.  We really want a younger intern we can mold."

A younger intern?
Too much work experience?
Dear hearts, this has an -ism attached to it!  Ageism!

Knowing that bringing that up wasn't going to get me anywhere, I thanked her politely, hung up, and then called the Field Placement Team with my tail between my legs.  They had been so gracious in setting this up for a first year student and I so felt as though I had let them  down.  Lucky for me, they were equally as baffled and a little unhappy with this agency (turns out for more than one reason).  Then they set me up with the internship I have now and it's been a love-love relationship.  One of the best experiences in my professional life.  Heck, my personal life, too.

So why am I telling you all of this?

Because later today I will be interviewing for my 2nd year Advanced Internship.  And I am stinking scared ... mostly because of how terribly the first interview went last year.  This internship is the big one.  This is the one for which my student profile went before a Graduate committee (and I was discussed in detail) to see if I was social worker worthy enough to be placed with my first internship choice. (Your 2nd year, you do ask.)  So far, yes.

Interview's at 1:00 with my first choice.

Fingers crossed.

A spunky co worker decided to throw a murder mystery cocktail party set at a women's college in 1960.  That part you already know from the previous post.

We had all received a few lines on who our characters would be.  I was "Mary" - quiet, bookish, nerdy.  Shoes was "Lawrence", dating me, conservative, son of a preacher.  A group of about 15 of us or so showed up at the party and were given extra information.  Reveal this, deflect this, try not to admit to this.

And then from there, the process is far too complicated to try to explain here.  Not even the character who did it knew she did it until the very end.

Good to know!

None of us figured it out, but as the night wore on and we got more and more into it, voices started to raise and laughter started to take over.  A good time, no doubt.

One of my most favorite parts was when gentlemanly Lawrence stood up suddenly, pointed at the "football captain" of Lone Pine College and shouted, "You, sir, are a pig!"  Which was met with a chorus of "Indeed!"

I have to start with the accessories for my costume first; the other pictures don't show them well.

It is Friday and I usually post on Fridays.

But I have nothing to post today.  In fact, it's a hectic, where's my brain, where's my planner, seriously I just spilled coffee on myself?, I wonder if my dress is a little too short for internship because all the extra weight I've been putting on through grad school is making things fit in funny ways, I have supervision in 6 minutes,  I have to write a paper and come up with a budget for a World Cafe (look it up) event that's in 3 weeks and the school has allocated exactly $0.00 to feed 50 people on by the end of the weekend, research intergenerational counseling techniques for frail older adults and their adult children type of day.

And tomorrow night I'm taking Shoes to a 1960 Murder Mystery Cocktail Party a dear friend in N. Portland is throwing.  He is less than enthusiastic.  But he is also A Very Good Man, so he has agreed to go.  My costume is fabulous.

I can't shake the feeling this might jeopardize any upcoming proposals.

Happy Weekend!