The Return of Guy

I continue to cling to a desire not to blog about my love life. However, last time I did, I got more responses than on any other blog post. Despite the fact that there are scattered members of my branch and possibly one of my professors who read this blog, I thought I would give everyone an update on Guy, from the blog about my love life, in case, like me, you thought his boldness several weeks ago was an isolated incident. It was not. 

Last night, we had FHE at a member of our branch presidency's house. I was talking with a group of people in the backyard when Guy walked up and began talking to two of the girls in our group. He was trying to convince them that, because he had recently paid for a meal for the two of them, they, in turn, each owed him a date. Both girls shook their heads, so he continued to assert his position by telling her when he wanted her to take him out. He explained to her that his birthday was coming up. Then, he said (again, I am trying to remember the exchange the best that I can), "But you can't have me on that night. That night is reserved someone else. You can have me on this night, instead."

Now, some of you may know that, when something is really funny to me, I tend to lose control of my muscles and tumble to the ground. Usually, if I'm sitting in a chair, I tumble forward, as I did in Sacrament meeting a couple of weeks ago. Last night, my knees sort of gave out, and I found myself lying on my back laughing. When I popped up, I launched into a rant in disbelief that guy would have the nerve to say that. By this time, the other girls had left. I said something to the effect of, "What makes you think you can get away with that?" His response: "Because I can."

It was at that point that my instincts finally kicked in, and I started yelling at him. I would like to say he walked away a changed man, but as soon as I started telling him he couldn't treat women this way, I realized that, no matter what I said to him, he wasn't going to change his ways. So, to exact revenge, I am posting this on my blog: he looks like Quagmire from Family Guy. I do not watch Family Guy, and I was not the person who noticed this originally, but I wholeheartedly agree with the person who did. I have never seen him wear a Hawaiian shirt, but that's the only difference.

There. I feel better.

Wake Me Up Before You Go-go

The end of the semester is just days away, and things are starting to fly by really fast. I should be doing a thousand other things right now, but I am updating my blog with pictures from the 80's prom we had last weekend. That's right, 80's proms have made their way to Lubbock, and this one was a big hit with the members of my branch, whether they remembered the 80's or not. Here's a shot of me with Ashley, who remembers more 80's and 90's trivia than anyone I know.

She's also one of the greatest dressers I know, both in her regular life and in her pretend life. Look closely at the details, like her earrings and the scarf in her hair. Also, she is wearing socks and high heels. You may be wondering about my costume, as it looks more medieval than Reagan-era. The look I was going for was Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles. Unfortunately, no one in the branch besides Ashley had ever seen that movie.

I am not normally much of a dancer (in public, I mean. In my car, or with Sammie in the living room, I'm a maniac). However, this was an occasion that definitely called for careless disregard of public opinion as I found myself dancing with Rudy to Beat It.  Apparently, he watched the video enough to memorize it, so I followed his lead as we started out on opposite sides of the room and came toward each other in a menacing fashion. What Rudy lacked in costume, he made up for in choreography.

Halfway through the night, my bridesmaid's dress started to get really hot, so I changed. Yes, I realize it was sort of bizarre that I brought a second outfit to the dance in anticipation of getting too hot, but it was not my first church dance. Pinned to my shoulder is a corsage I made in an attempt to hang on to the skills I learned from my floral design class. It was not a great attempt.

However, it was a great night. To finish off this post, I would like to list off a few of my favorite things from the 80's:

• Perms. Why did I frequently have a perm in the 80's? These days, I go out of my way to make my hair NOT curl.
• Debbie Gibson. If my heart could write songs, they'd sound like her.
• Cartoon bad guys. Murky Dismal. Gargamel. The Peculiar Purple Pieman of Porcupine Peak. They had style. I feel only slightly duped to realize that cartoons in the 80's were merely a giant marketing ploy to get parents to buy toys.
• Leggings. 
• Michael J. Fox. Marty McFly and Alex P. Keaton. Classic.

One more thing that I liked about the 80's was that I spent none of them feeling as tired and stressed out as I do right at this moment. I miss that.

NEW POST IN JANUARY!

I don't like that blogger dates my posts from when I start them, rather than when I finish them. I started one in January, but finished it today. It's got pictures of me in my prom dress, if you care enough to find it.

Identity Crisis

Am I a doctor?

According to my degree plan, I'm not even close at this point. However, I don't know that that's really the question I'm asking.

As a therapist, I get paid (now) to make judgment calls on other people. While I try not to say things to people that make them gasp and go, "Yes, that's EXACTLY what I'm feeling!" like I'm some kind of mindreader, I do find that I have pretty good instincts about people. And I have started to notice that, among my own kind, there is a phenomenon I like to call "Doctor Envy." A recent trend in my profession backs this up, I believe. We call it medical family therapy, and, while it means different things in different settings, it often refers to doing family therapy with people who are simultaneously being seen for serious medical issues, such as chronic diseases, children in intensive care units, or infertility. This means that therapists, who do NOT go to medical school, do not put their hands in cadavers, do not do grueling internships or residencies, and do not get paid large salaries when it is all over, get to wander around the hospital wearing a badge and talking to people about what is wrong with them. Like a doctor would. And some of us get PhD's, so they have to call us doctor.

The funny thing is, my profession grew out of a reaction against the way doctors (psychiatrists who, according to most of the medical community, are not really doctors either) treated patients with mental health issues (meaning schizophrenia). So, for a long time, even though MFT founders were trying to create something very different from the medical profession, they were all trained as doctors, so they still thought like doctors (patients, treatment, diagnoses, etc.). Recently, there has been a postmodern movement to see the clients as collaborators in the therapeutic process, and to step down from the expert role. And while I think the majority of therapists I know espouse those ideals, and believe that their clients come in with strengths and collaborate on their treatment, I think we all want to feel special.

What's the point of all this? I just started my new job at the Employee Assistance Program at Texas Tech. Actually, this job is at the Texas Tech Health Sciences Center, which means that, if you REALLY want to get technical, I am working at the hospital. I mean, the building I work in is huge, and the hospital is on the very east end of the building behind some heavy metal double doors, whereas I am on the very west end of the building, but still. Many of my clients work at the Health Sciences Center, as well as at the hospital. Here are some other things that make me wonder if I am beginning to think like a doctor:

• I now have a pager, which the receptionists (who wear scrubs) in the psychiatric unit (the word "unit" isn't helping my identity crisis) page me on when I have a client.

• Occasionally, I am "on call" which means that if a client has an emergency, I have to deal with it.

• I have a parking sticker, which allows me to park in the same parking lot as Layne, an actual doctor. I kind of hope that bugs him.

• Today, I had an urge to wear a surgical mask and goggles to protect my mouth and nose from dust blowing past me at 40 miles an hour.

All of these, individually, do not mean much. Actually, they probably don't mean much together, either. However, it has made me think a lot about what I do, and why I do it. I became a therapist because I wanted to help people have better relationships. I did not become a doctor because I get queasy at the sight of blood. And needles. And tissues. And I'm pretty sure I would never want to see fat or bones, either. I love my job. I get to spend an hour a week with people who allow me into their lives. Doctors don't get that. But did I become a therapist because I couldn't be a doctor? I don't know. I'll be thinking about it while I am buying scrubs and a white lab coat, which, I have decided I need to start wearing.