I decided to let my daughter sleep with me last night since she is a bit sick. The 10 feet of distance between our two rooms is sometimes too much for my racing mind to handle. Having her closer seemed like a good idea, so I wouldn’t have to guess about her throughout the night. However, I was frightened awake around midnight by someone that looked like my sweet Ella, but this version was crying and barking like a seal. She spoke fast and stared at me urgently speaking in a language I mostly did not understand. She was insisting we needed to leave the house, trying to pull me from the bed. She would break into English that I could understand at times, but would drift back to the crying, seal barking mode while looking wildly into my eyes, pleading with me in this strange language insisting we leave the house.

It was about midnight when this occurred. The only place, I knew of, open at this hour on Thanksgiving was Safeway. I thought to myself, I doubt she wants to go to Safeway. But on the other hand, Ella didn’t eat much today. We spent the morning at urgent care. Ella was diagnosed with Strep throat. Ella only ate a bit of Jello, some rice and a couple bites of pie. Ella’s Thanksgiving feast was less than we had anticipated. Perhaps, she had caught her second wind and knew that we only had about 30 minutes until Safeway closed.

In this very creepy interaction, she continued to cry, bark, and speak in this unknown language. When she did not get the desired response from me she would dry heave. Well, I then would react firmly stating, “Ella, or whoever you are, if you are going to vomit, you are NOT going to do it in my bed, and then she would insist she would not. She then would continue the process of barking, crying, and wanting to leave the house.

After a period that seemed far too long, I was able to get this little demon to lay back down. I, however, was freaked out and wide awake. The creature that laid beside me snored loudly like there was something dark trying to get out. I pondered putting the little poltergeist back in her own bed, but didn’t want this child, coming at me from behind, tapping me on the shoulder with another demand. I’d much rather see her coming and wrestle her off. As I finally managed to doze off, on cue Ella sat up again crying and barking like a seal with the demand of leaving the house, ending in the dry heaving. After getting Ella back to bed for a second time, I considered calling a priest with a ample supply of holy water and perhaps a few ghost hunters. I thought, at the least, they could  watch Ella as I get just a few hours of sleep, they seemed skilled for such. They might even consider such a task mundane.

I was super grateful to make it through the night and wake up to a nice sunrise this morning. I felt like I survived a night in a haunted house. Ella, of course had no recollection of the events of last night. She seems to be feeling much better today. I surmise the activities of last night were related to her illness. However, just to be safe I’ve decided to head out to my local Christian supply store for some emergency stockpiles, I seem to be fresh out. I am wondering if they have any exorcism kits for dummies on sale for Black Friday.

I was at a point in my life where I was exhausted. On my way to work I would walk by and smell you. You smelled amazing. I was always curious about you, but I didn’t think you were my taste. But that smell either became more persuasive or I was just weak with fatigue. I finally decided I would give you a try. It started out innocently enough, a latte here and there, at first. But soon enough I was hooked. Soon I was frapping, capping, getting double and triple of you, and pouring ice over you when it was warm outside. I really couldn’t get enough. In the evening, before I would go to bed I would become excited at the thought of meeting up with you again in he morning. My standard latte eventually turned into an Americano, I didn’t need milk taking any of the glory away from you. I then began to buy some locally roasted beans that I would grind for the mornings. I would drink my home brew and then grab a quickie on my way to work. Life was good. You put the manic in my hypo. You made me want to conquer the world during the 20 minute rush that only you seemed to give me. I needed you. I was dependent. You knew how to get me to that perfect level of agitation and yet still make me supremely productive. Some type of black magic, maybe. However, in spite of how hooked and addicted I was, you were just not good for me. You gave me a 9 year stomach ache with raging, searing heartburn. To be honest, I blamed everything else when the doctor asked and I eliminated everything from my diet worth living for, except you.

Recently, I had to make the heart-wrenching decision to break up with you. It has been four weeks. The most devastating part of this story is how much better my stomach feels. I mean this is just awful news. How could you be the cause of such gastrointestinal upset, when you are so incredibly perfect in every single way. I cannot tell you how heartbroken I am that I have to live my life without you. I still smell you everywhere. I have found myself standing outside of the Starbucks I used to frequent, wondering if the baristas miss me? I leer from the outside looking in watching them stand in line to order. I watch them drink from those white cardboard cups with their names spelled incorrectly.

I have thought about not letting any of them have you and have half the urge to slap the cups out of their undeserving hands, but this is Portland. I would be exhausted. There is literally a coffee shop on every corner of every block, I can’t take on this kind of attitude, can I? No. I am not a vengeful person. Next time, I will just lick the glass when I linger too long watching every sip they take while I am on the outside looking in. I promise it won’t be an angry lap at the window, but more of a longing kind of lick with a hint of taunting. I hope you consider this fair.

I would tell you that I can’t sleep, but this is just not true. I am sleeping fine for the first time in 9 years. I would say I am a mess and can’t eat, but again no. I can finally eat  without thinking that perhaps I mistakenly swallowed shards of glass and chased it with some sort of cleaning agent. However, I life without you doesn’t seem possible. You made me feel alive or maybe it was just awake, but isn’t that the same? Presently, I have replaced you with Chamomile. This is like going from ridding in a high-speed train to being pulled in a carriage by an deceased horse. I truly am trying to love the one I am with, but shit just got real boring. Oh sure, I do try to do new things with Chamomile to try to keep it exciting. I put it in a fancy mug and throw some honey and milk in it. I’m thinking about adding a donut into the mix occasionally, but I am afraid that the Chamomile will just be the third wheel. I have doubts that anything good will come from a menage a trios with my tea.

I haven’t completely given up on our future, though. I am hoping that great scientific minds will come up with a way that I can consume you in a way that will bypass my stomach all together. I have not heard of anyone snorting you or smoking you, but I haven’t done a thorough internet searched yet, to be completely honest. I have heard of the coffee colonic, but I fear that if I made this part of my normal morning routine it might interfere with my work schedule a bit. Perhaps, I will consider this for birthdays and holidays. Until then I will continue to walk into my kitchen and stare breathlessly at my empty coffee pot. I promise to remember the good times, and then weep silently into my cup of Chamomile, maybe the salt will spice it up a bit.

A few months ago, every morning I would be abruptly awaken by a bird running head first into my french doors. I would wake up and pull open my curtains and watch this little bird take a running start over and over, running head first into my the glass window. I would get my first cup of coffee and continue to watch this poor little bird, battling my door until I had to leave for work. I would think about this little fellow at times throughout the day, wondering if he was still hedging a battle with my home. I am no bird expert, but it is my understanding during mating season male birds become territorial over their mating grounds and often begin to attack windows and mirrors, thinking they are fighting off potential competition for their mating partners.

Everyday, it was the same. I would wake to a substantial bang on my glass doors. I would watch, get ready for work, and leave. I looked for a particular characteristic about this bird in an attempt to identify him, but my attention to detail has never been a strong point with me. But I had already began to identify with this creature without really knowing what type of bird he might be. Knowing his real name wasn’t important, because he was me, I was him. I called named him the “social work” bird.  Because for the past nineteen years of my life, I have been waking up every morning and making the choice to bang my head against my own set of  french doors. I have had a virtual headache for years over fighting for a better everything for individuals with mental health issues. The battle has been consistent, persistent and might have caused a bit of TBI since I did not have the foresight to pace myself or wear a helmet. Why would anyone take on such a battle? Well, just like the bird, the image that I saw in the mirror looked like something worth fighting for.

I’m always thankful for all the other little social work birds running head first into their walls, mirrors, or glass doors. Keep your weight centered and your helmets secured, peeps. Appreciate the ample amounts of caffeine that is available to motivate you all to get the running head start at the beginning of your workday. And you can WHINE or WINE as much as you see fit to at the end of the day.  As long as the image you saw in the mirror that initially motivated you to take your first head first run still makes you want to do it all again, head first, tomorrow and the next day and the next…….

I feel I’m caught in between an automatic and manual world of hand washing in the public restrooms. When I find myself in new surroundings, I stand too long in front of manual water faucets just waiting like a princess for the water to sense my existence. Sometimes I stand in front of the mirror feeling mildly insecure about my relationships with objects and their inability to sense me and my needs. Then I realize this faucet expects me to actually use force, how barbaric.  I turn the water on, roll my eyes, and secretly resent the faucet for making me feel stupid or making me exert, I really can’t decide which.

I do the same dance with the soap dispensers, but I find sometimes when the faucets are manual, the soap dispensers have been upgraded to automatic and this takes me off guard and I feel attacked. Or the opposite happens, I hold my hands under the soap and wait like I do with the water, and I realize it does not have an automatic mechanism and it might be mocking me. I then push the button just a little too hard to seek my revenge and pretend my hands are just really, really dirty when I am flooded with soap.

I find myself waving more at paper towels than I do at actual humans on the street. My waving is often rewarded with just one very small paper towel. A second attempt of waving even more vigorously produces nothing, and I am often forced to use my jeans to dry my hands instead. All the paper towel machines I encounter have a message written on them stating the costumer does not have to touch it in order for it to dispense. Just simply wave a hand near the sensor. Liars! Just like the sicko who likes to stand too close to the exit on the subway, forcing all the in-coming and out-going passengers to rub past him. I believe he must have created this paper towel holder, cause this machine will not spit out a towel unless it is mildly molested.

Come to think of it, I would much rather just dry my hands on that never ending festering old-school cloth towel hand-drying dispenser. You know, the one with the same cloth just rotates around for centuries and looks like it has never been changed. It says a lot about me that I will risk a few more germs than look like a jackass waving at or fondling a paper napkin machine, but I feel I need to draw the line somewhere, I guess.

The other option is the jet engine hand dryer that causes hearing loss. I am perfectly fine with buying tickets to a rock concert and dealing with tinnitus after, but I am not totally okay with ringing in my ears being a after-effect of a bathroom visit. I have seen the new hand drying machines send happy toddlers into convulsing piles of tantrums….wait, no. That was me.

Do I have a point to make? No. I hate to think the inventors invent for the the first world inhabiters because we are so far gone that we need special considerations when it comes to faucets, soap and hand-drying. Next? I am actually hoping for an public restroom emotional fluffer who greets me as I am leaving, to pump me up for next time much like a mother does with her toddler after a successful potty training experience. This hologram would say the following: “Ms. Solt, the way you made the faucets flow, the soap dispensers your bitch, and the manner in which you tickled the paper towel sensor made me want to run for the nearest stall myself! Bravo! I cannot wait to see how you master these sanitizing beasts at your next visit!”

I recently purchased a treadmill and it was delivered to my house. I know I understood I had to put it together, but I don’t think I fully wrapped my brain around this concept. I also think I was just a bit grandiose in my ability to manage this project.  To construct means: to combine parts, systematically arranging, to build. I do all these things rather poorly. I don’t even cook or throw dinner parties due to these weaknesses. I just can’t. My time management is poor and my organizational skills are worse. Actually, cooking for a holiday dinner gives me almost as much anxiety as being pulled out to sea in a riptide while hearing the tsunami warning horns blaring off in the distance.  Just the thought of this exhausts me. I believe building a treadmill might be the same thing as throwing a dinner party, minus handling the screws.

When the delivery truck pulled up I was excited and anxious at the same time. Let’s not confuse the two. These are totally different states of energy. I know this as an obsessive kind of person who treads through a healthy amount of apprehension on the daily.  After the delivery men left, I still remained magically optimistic and hopeful that maybe when I opened the box the machine would already be put together and it was just in its folded upright position. Of course my childish optimism faded with the cutting of the cardboard and I was left feeling a bit impotent.  Very similarly, I feel the same when I’m handed a new Apple device and am told about its capabilities and of its storage capacity. Terabyte? Wait, isn’t that a type of dinosaur?

In spite if myself, I opened the instruction manuel and laid the parts out, mainly in an attempt to fool myself. Perhaps, if my body acts like it knows what it’s doing, my brain will just go along with it. I followed the steps, each one. Until I get to step 14. I was supposed to have a stabilization bar, in which the console is theoretically to rest upon, but no. I read if you don’t have all the parts I am to STOP. Well, I think I was already three hours committed, which is too far my dear instruction manuel to just quit. And I have put enough Target  furniture together in the past two years to have some realization that sometimes there are variations between what is in the manuel and what is in the actual box. However, I did have a few moments of…well, I guess this is how it all ends, with the urge to just pack my bags and light a match and just be done with it. As the case may be, I might be the only person who has fantasies of just burning my house to the ground when it’s too dirty or when I take on a project that spirals into disaster much like this one .

With parts scattered all over the garage, I retraced all my steps thinking I might have carried off this stabilization bar to some other part of my house. I looked for it along with my stability for a period of time that seemed appropriate. I mean, just last week I found a lost coffee mug in my garden, so my ability to carry things off is part of my daily struggle. The commercials about early stage dementia often catch my attention for obvious reasons.

I looked everywhere and deep down knew this stabilization bar did not exist, yet I believed in it like I did in Santa. I knew this machine could be put together without it and it was meant to be put together without it, but the mere mention of it filled my already low mechanical self esteem with even more self doubt, which led me to curse the manufactures and my doubting self. And to have so many extra screws was worrisome. I continued to put the entire machine together and got to step 24 and then realized I forget to tighten some necessary screws at step 16 and had to take everything apart until then. Rest assured, those forgotten screws at step 16 are tight, cause they were tightened with a calm, quiet rage.

I worked for more hours than I like to admit putting that machine together that day. I did curse some, but mainly I did in a low mumbling tone. I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse, actually. I almost finished up that night, but just could not get the last two screws in. I’m not sure if it was because I lost the good light of the day or if it was because my hands just failed to hold the screw driver properly after all those hours. I did try several times and I just could not get the screws to go where they were suppose to go, so instead of dropping a match to it and walking away in slow motion, I just put the screw driver down and grabbed a glass of wine and some Tylenol. Those two loose screws were not a problem when I finally screwed them in the following morning. And it’s not all the unused and loose screws left astray on the floor that bother me.  I think it’s the loose ones running on it that troubles me the most.

The repetition of my feet hitting the pavement during my almost daily run often puts my mind in a semi-meditative state. I am able to ponder many things. Somedays I ponder my poor choice of underwear. On other days while running, I ruminate over the fact I used the pronoun “he” when actually referring to a “she” during a discussion earlier in the day. In my defense, she was super handsome. And I must admit on some runs, I think about absolutely nothing, not even a glimmer of any intelligent thought. I guess my point is, I can turn off my mind and not think as much as I want or think as much as I need to, but the choice is mine.

During the last few weeks, my meditation has been interrupted by greenery. Most would consider this a good thing, but I don’t. During my runs I have been fixated on the state of other people’s yards. I have had these obsessive urges to pull out random weeds I see along my way. I want to trim hedges and clip low hanging branches. I just want to prune. I have actually interrupted a run and bent down to pull a weed, but stopped myself. Last night I had a dream I did stop mid jog in some random yard and just went crazy weeding. I was frantically shoving all the weeds in my pockets, as if I didn’t want the homeowner to see any evidence I had been there.

I find myself thinking a lot about weeds. I notice the ones that grow through the cracks of the pavement when I’m downtown. Recently, I was having a conversation with a co-worker and I did not hear a word once I noticed the wayward weed growing through the cement. The urge to pull it from the crack in the concrete was strong! I guess I am a little troubled to be fixated on weeds, but not too upset that I’m noticing the urban ones. However, the fact I am consumed with weed control while on my daily run is the more bothersome aspect. My once mellow meditative running is no longer and this begs the question. Do I have a weeding problem? Is it interfering with my social life? Can I stop weeding cold turkey? Or can I still do it socially and still function?

I have made the Home Depot garden section one of my routine stops. I often slowly stroll the isles looking for others desperate souls. I listen for the conversations they strike up with staff and spy on what they put in their carts to gauge just how far gone they might be in their battle. They might not even have to say one word, at least to me. I might know just enough by how much weed killer or gardening tools that roll through on the checkout belt. And I silently judge them and think “they” are much worse than I am, I am nothing like “them”. They have a much bigger weeding problem than I do.

Looking back, I believe the gateway to my weed dependence and addiction was/is my yard. At first I really hated the act of weeding. It started out innocently enough. I was just trying to fit in and be a good neighbor. The other neighbors were doing it, so it must be okay. Over time one hour turned into two and before I knew it, I would be in a full weed binge. Five hours of the day would go by before I could bring myself to stop plucking those noxious plants from the earth. Now, I just can’t do it enough during the weekend, and I rush home from work to continue to weed throughout the week. Until I find a W.A. group I will fight the good fight. Till then I will white knuckle and resist the urge to go for a run with my gardening gloves on & clippers in hand, and I will let the rap music I listen to while I run sing about hoes instead of me jogging with one….for now.

Day one of last week started off with me feeling as if I was being physically assaulted by the clicking of this lady’s heels as they hammered the concrete, like tiny deadly jackhammers penetrating the base of my scull with each step. I thought to myself, this is totally me and has nothing to do with this poor woman innocently walking behind me.  Most likely she was thinking she was being fashionable and not criminal. The clicking could have been a form of military torture to break those who are feeling peevish. It was a form of Chinese water torture for my ears.

Day one continued with me losing a report.  My computer promptly freaked out as I was attempting to save it and the document just disappeared, much like my sanity. I unplugged my laptop and carried it like an injured child to my car and sped to work, with it still on. I drove fast. I tried to stay calm. I talked to my laptop. I said, “Please stay with me, come on, do not go to sleep! I need to get you help! Don’t die on me, man!” I ran upstairs and rushed into the only room I could doc my laptop and get it the necessary help. I dialed IT. They asked many unnecessary questions, like “do you have the laptop with you? What is the age of your laptop? Is the little light still flashing?” The IT person finally took command of my laptop and he was able to save it, but he was not able to save my little document. My drive back home with my laptop was sad and quiet that afternoon.

Day two I decided to let my traumatized laptop rest and sneak off to the office early to get some work done. I had a super productive morning and was able to send a large report to my supervisor for review. My supervisor was able to review it quickly and get it back to me, and then it just disappeared. POOF! The document was gone. I called my friends at IT, and still the document was gone. We sent out several search parties. They all came back exhausted and empty. I threw a mental tantrum at my desk, quietly. It was barely noticeable, except for the eye twitch. If I would have encountered the lady in heels around this time, we would have rumbled. She was still on my mind.

Day three my treadmill broke. Some people have a thing they must do everyday in order to feel normal. For me it is running. Running is like air and food for me. It is the third essential. Running is the thread that delicately holds the pieces of my life together. It makes me normal, mostly. It makes me mostly, normal. MY TREADMILL BROKE!

Day four I stopped to buy a new treadmill. The salesperson refused to sell me the moderately priced treadmill I saw on their website, because he did not feel comfortable selling me this particular treadmill. He felt I would not be happy with it. Even with cash in hand and the motivation to BUY A TREADMILL. The “salesperson” REFUSED to sell me the treadmill. This really isn’t how it’s supposed to work, I get it. But I imagine it was the universe speaking to me in some effed up sort of way. He was selling treadmills not puppies. I’m an awesome parent to both, mind you!

Day five, six and seven completed with a week full of some Pretty Messy Stuff and I am certain the reason the short temper and irritability had a PMS somewhere in it too. And I do know my energy is wacky and this happened even before the thread holding things in place broke with my treadmill. As I sit here on the eve before another day one rolls around, I can only hope that things have or did shift back to a mostly normal way of life.  And if tomorrow I hear the click and clack of those heels behind me, I hope I will be inclined to compliment those lovely shoes instead of wrestle that little lady to the ground.

I am sad to report that I’m faced with the task to be writing the obituary for Amy Solt’s pride, ego, and general well being. As we speak, I’m digging a relatively big hole in the back yard where all these pieces of Solt will be placed in their finally resting place along with her smoke alarm.

It has been a extremely slow and arduous process to the grave. As someone who knew these aspects of Solt well, let me tell you, she thought if she did what was professionally recommended, then all would be just fine, but then it wasn’t. She did it just as they said, and then some. Never feeling guilty about cutting corners. This philosophy carried over into other portions of her life as well. Solt often would become quickly obsessed with particular things, and did them and repeated…and repeated. Health vs. obsession, who really knows? But who really cared as long as there was a benefit, a payoff? She lived within the paradigm that if you lived healthy then you should BE healthy.

Things did unravel a bit in the last few months. Solt was rear-ended, and not in the good way. This lead to a small neck issue that grew into a larger neck and back issue, due to stubbornness to do anything but hours and hours of yard work. A few visits to a chiropractor and a high blood pressure scare that literally took seconds off her life. This neurotic Solt mind thought, I can only surmise, “High blood pressure, there is no way I can workout any more than I already do!” Luckily, the high blood pressure was not an issue. However, as a person who adequately knew Solt knows at times her blood pressure might creep up in numbers when she is feeling just a bit infuriated, even when smiling at the person, who brought Solt to answer her door at 8 o’clock at in the evening, concerned about her soul and where it might go when she passes on. Next time, I would like to direct this lovely person to the cavernous hole that is nicely started in the corner of her yard.

This takes me back to the issue, but on another unfortunate tangent at the same time. It is difficult to conceive the news of a cavity on the top back left molar was the demise of Solt. It was diagnosed as a incredibly small cavity, easily fixed. However, this spiraled into death for Solt, I sat at her bedside after her diagnoses. Solt sat shaking her head staring blankly. I flossed. I brushed. I rinse with fluoride, and repeated AND REPEATED! How did this happen? Shameful. And Ashamed. Solt let the old feelings of guilt return.

Solt was/is in recovery from religion. From a very young person to her formative years, she was confronted by a very small, but forceful grand woman who insisted poor Solt was going to hell and needed to be saved. It seemed Solt was saved hundred of times by the hands of this woman. This redundancy could have meant only one thing in Solt’s mind….Solt must have been evil and this poor little woman sensed it. Solt walked around mostly just waiting for the loving hands of Almighty to reach down at any moment and snuff out the evilness that surely existed. Solt suffered mostly in silence, feeling guilty for breathing, being and mainly living. Solt developed a breathtaking perfection complex to fill her time and it did take her mind off of her impending doom that was most certainly loomed just around the corner.

Solt adopted many concepts to busy her mind and body. She was the only elementary student who actually trained for ‘field day”. Solt did not step on any cracks on the side walk, cause you heard the rhyme. Solt became pretty rigid in some of her thinking. All of her actions were to stave off guilt as it was the overriding force in her mind. Perfection had to be the key to survival. If Solt did not screw up at all, then there would be no reason for the wrath of the Almighty to come crashing down upon her shoulders.

Good brushing. No, GREAT brushing and never missing a 6 month cleaning, should equal NO cavities. And still a cavity. Now, I am digging of a rather large hole in the back yard for my dear friend’s ego, pride and general well being. I decided to add the smoke alarm. I don’t think Solt will mind. Even with brand spanking new batteries this device still manages to beep every 60 seconds. It seems fitting the smoke alarm be placed in the final resting place to provide eternal torment for these essential parts of Solt. I am certain the last person who knocked on Solt’s door concerned about her soul would approve.

There is so much dust in my house if I sit still long enough I imagine I would eventually look a bit like Santa, covered in a snow like dust hat with a matching beard. I would like to think that even with the beard I would be a tad bit sexier and with better abs. I vacuum, sweep, swifter and wet swifter and then repeat, and then repeat. I have a family of dust bears living under my bed, notice how I didn’t say bunnies. I have not named them yet.

There are so many weeds in my yards, I just decided to water them and tell people they are my plants. I am hopeful they will grow tall enough and I will eventually climb them to sky and bring back some golden eggs. There better be an egg bearing chicken beyond those clouds! These weeds could have only have come from magic beans.

There is so much grass that needs to be mowed, I am sure I could feed a modest herd of sheep or goats. I could quit my job and just herd them around my yard. I imagine myself in a white robe with one of those wooden sticks that resembles a candy cane. Oh, and let’s not forget those sandals I assume Jesus wore, but I’m sure my toes are in better condition with a nice colorful polish, and my hair would not be unruly as it blows in the wind as my animals graze until they could burst.

There are so many ants coming and going in and out of my house, I, in desperation, read that drawing a line in chalk where the ants might be coming in will stop them (they don’t like walking through it). I drew a line around my entire house. Now, my house looks like a crime scene. I, somehow, still have ants. Which confirms my biggest fear. The ants are living in my house with me, they must have abandoned their colony long ago and moved in. I keep asking to speak to the Queen, but I think she’s dodging me, much like a stubborn squatter. I have to say I’m a bit jealous, she has all these drones bringing her food, my food. Before I evict her I need to learn her secrets, especially if it means never going grocery shopping again.

There is a house on the corner that consumes so much time that ticks between Friday and Sunday. Between the dusting, mowing, chalk outlining, and weed watering I do an extra-ordinary amount of cursing in my front and back yard, which leaves me exhausted and sometimes hoarse. I fear my neighbors might start making their little ones wear noise canceling headphone while I am out doing my yard work. So, my fist line of business when I return from my weed stalk is to deliver the golden eggs I collected to my neighbors as a sign of thanks and for paying witness to a seemingly possessed Santa, goat herding, crime scene outliner that they have no choice but to put up with for 48 hours of home owning bliss that repeats weekend after weekend, and then repeats.

I have had my car for almost 3 years. I always loved my ability to go hands free, with my phone. However, I find it interesting how my phone and my car have difficulty communicating. It should be as simple as turning on the blue tooth and then connecting the device with my car, but not so much it seems. In the beginning of their relationship, they never had this communication dilemma. I would turn on car and chat away. I can’t pinpoint the date of the breakdown, a year ago? two years? I’m just not sure. Now, I get in my car and turn on the ignition and I am whined at almost immediately with the words “paring failed!” I stop what I am doing and reintroduce the two. My phone and car will then communicate for a day or so, but then their relationship hits the rocks again.

I have patiently tried again to get the two together to foster communicate. As a Libra, I am a natural mediator of sorts, so this makes sense. I talked softly in a low calm voice to both of them (phone and car). I use device focused language and techniques that increased affection, closeness with hopes to resolve conflict. I attempted to build a love map between the two and even tried to find positive psychology emotions, but to be honest I’m not sure if I was searching for me or my car and phone. Let’s just say it was for us. I even employed some spiritual and behavioral techniques, some might say jumping up and down screaming “Hey-zeus Krist!” has zero therapeutical value, but I beg to differ. I felt much better after my…our “session”.

I have pulled over countless times to fix, work, struggle, stress, and toil over the relationship between my car/ my phone. I have finally reached the point in my therapist/social worker’s life where I realize that I’m working much harder than my devices. I decided to do one last thing and it’s  considered a pretty drastic technique to save the relationship between my devices. I decided to bring in a surrogate to see if my car could perhaps pair with another phone. And all seemed to go well until it didn’t. So, now I am convinced that my car might be a player or a swinger. I totally understand though, my car is a new model and it most likely doesn’t want to settle down with just one phone yet. My other theory, which I’m leaning more towards, is perhaps my car is behaving like a judgmental relative and just likes to passively aggressively remind me several times a day of my marital status.

Presently, our threesome is in complete relationship breakdown. I don’t even attempt to foster or coerce any more communication between the two. I, now, yell back at my car. The reminders of the relationship breakdown are just redundant, unnecessary, and un-therapeutic to be perfectly honest. I do understand these verbal exchanges sometimes confuse Ella and she asks, “Are you talking to me?” I am always quick to respond, “No, don’t be ridiculous! I’m talking to the car.” I am not sure you all would understand this, but telling my car car to shut the hell up, is surprisingly satisfying and my daughter’s college/therapy fund is growing to be used for whatever she feels she needs more.