Whaddya Do?

Shoo-wee!! I have been one busy lady this month, I tell ya what. “Busy doing what?,” you ask. Working mostly. “What do you do?,” you ask. Well, it's kind of hard to explain (and you sure do ask a lot of questions), but I'll try...

For simplicity's sake, I usually just tell people that I'm a therapist, which is true, but it really doesn't explain all that I do. I'll start by saying that I'm a Licensed Master Social Worker and a clinical social worker, but not a Licensed Clinical Social Worker. (That's a topic for a whole 'nother day.) Primarily, I direct a program that helps families deal with behavior problems in preschool-age children. (Kind of like the Super Nanny.) With that program, I sometimes go out to schools or daycares, too, but mostly I work directly with families at the center. In addition to that, I do some part-time work at a community mental health center, primarily doing new-client intakes but also some therapy, though I've temporarily stopped taking new therapy patients. On top of all that, I've taken on a temporary part-time job doing in-home crisis counseling with disaster survivors. And, I'm preparing to take on a fourth job doing counseling on some Saturdays.

Yes, it can get pretty complicated trying to explain what I do, and most of my friends and family members still have no idea what I do for a living, other than, “I think she works for the state.” (I do not work for the state, by the way.) I'm pretty sure even my husband doesn't fully understand it all. It's okay; it adds to my mystique.

A lot of people just assume I'm a teacher. I've stopped trying to correct them. Usually, conversations go something like this:

“So, what do you do?”

“I'm a therapist.”

“What kind of therapist? A physical therapist?”

“No, a counselor.”

“Is that like a teacher?”

“Not really.”

“Do you work with kids?”

“Yes, sometimes. I usually do counseling with adults, but I also work in a program that helps parents deal with their kids' problem behaviors, and I sometimes work directly with the kids.”

“So it's like being a teacher?”

“Mmm, not exactly...”

“Yeah, I could tell you were some kind of teacher. So, do you like being a teacher?”

“Yeah. I like it just fine.”

Sometimes, rather than tell people that I'm a therapist, I say that I'm a social worker, but then I usually end up trying to explain that I don't work for the department of children's services, and I don't take people's kids away.

The other risk I take when I tell people what I do for a living is that they want to start telling me right away about their problems. “Oh, you're a therapist? That's nice. You know, I never really had a good relationship with my father. It all started when I was about six years old...”

I'm considering coming up with a faux profession that everybody understands, but no one finds interesting enough to talk about. Perhaps I'll start telling everyone that I sell life insurance. Yeah, scratch all that stuff I said before. I'm a life insurance salesperson.

Long Haired Country Girl, Part II

Did I tell ya my sister has connections? Well, hold on to your Charlie Daniels-lovin' hats, folks! I got to meet him! I can't divulge all the logistical details, but my sister totally hooked me up with a fairly exclusive concert / meet & greet! It was magical! That's why all these sentences end with exclamation points!

I was so excited at the time that some of the experience is a wonderful blur. I may have taken a few creative liberties to fill in the gaps, but here is the account of my meeting with Charlie Daniels...

Before we met, I got to watch him play all up-close and personal like. He did an all-request concert and played such hits as Uneasy Rider, A Few More Rednecks, Long Haired Country Boy, The Legend of Wooley Swamp, and South's Gonna Do It Again, among others. I would say my seat was probably 15 feet or so away from the legendary CDB. They played Devil Went Down to Georgia as the final number, and I dern near lost my mind. I went up to the stage and watched him perform from a distance of about 5 feet! It was AWESOME!

After the show, he did an autograph signing with the fans. When it was finally my turn to meet him, I approached him nervously.

“Hello, Charlie Daniels,” I whispered.

“Well, hello there, little lady. How ya doin'?”

“I'm just fine, Charlie Daniels. I really enjoyed the show tonight. I think you're the greatest fiddler there ever was.”

“Why, thank ye kindly. I understand you play a pretty mean fiddle yourself.”

Astonished, I asked him, “How did you know I fiddle?”

“I'm a real big fan of that blog of yours,” he replied.

Embarrassed and taken aback, I looked down and kicked at the ground a bit with my red cowgirl boots. “I'm really not that good. I'm just learning,” I told him.

“Ah, I bet you're better'n ya think.” He handed me his fiddle and motioned for me to play.

I paused for a moment and took the fiddle slowly from his hand. I looked it over, placed it under my chin, and started to play. I sawed on that sucker faster and meaner than I ever have before. I played Fire on the Mountain; run, boys, run. Hairs split from the bow and flew off in every direction. I looked at him when I finished playing, still unsure of exactly what had just happened. “I knew you had it in ya,” he said, “I can just tell these things.”

Sweaty and breathless after my solo, I told him, “You're my inspiration.”

“You know something?,” he said. “You've inspired me, too.” He pulled a hula hoop out from under his table and grinned. “Crank us out another tune there, Amber.” As I began to draw the bow across the fiddle, he tossed the hula hoop around me. There I was, in the zone, fiddling and hula hooping at the same time with Charlie Daniels! He rounded up a second fiddle, and we played together. A tear came to my eye as we concluded our duet.

I handed him back his hula hoop. “Thank you,” I managed to utter, nearly choked up. “You are my hero, Mr. Daniels.”

“Ah, call me Charlie,” he said with a smile.

I reached out to shake his hand, and he pulled me in for a big hug. We laughed for a moment, about what, I'm not even sure. I nodded at him, and as I headed for the door, he called out to me. “Amber?”

“Yeah, Charlie?”

“Amber, you did some real fancy fiddlin' here tonight. Don't you be scared now to rosin up that bow and play your fiddle hard.”

“I won't, Charlie. I won't.”

Boringest Story Ever

Recently, my husband and I did something that neither of us has done in years. We went to the dentist. It was high time, too. He'd not been since his one and only visit at age 18, and I'd not been since I had my wisdom teeth out at 17, and even then I was overdue for a cleaning.

I kind of had a traumatic experience last time I went to the dentist. For one thing, I woke up during the surgery. I was just doped up enough to not be able to communicate by any other means than blinking and groaning. It must've worked, though, because they did knock me back out. But I was left with long-lasting effects of my nightmarish trip, a hidden disability that I live with to this day: I have no feeling on the left side of my tongue. I've since learned to live with it, but it sure was pesky for the first year or so. It was very hard to talk, because my tongue would keep creeping and spreading over to the left side of my mouth, and I would accidentally bite it all the time.

I've known for a while that I've needed to drag my half-dead tongue back to the dentist. Not only has it been hurting when I eat, but I have developed a sort of canyon in one of my back teeth, along with various other little chasms. Little pieces of my teeth just crumble off in my mouth on a regular basis. I've been scared to go to a dentist, because I've been afraid they would yell at me for the poor state of my teeth and for not flossing consistently.

I've been trying to reverse years of dental neglect for the 2-3 months before my appointment. I flossed religiously and began using a new mouthwash, hoping I could fill up my cavities with fluoride. I guess it worked, because the anti-climactic end to this mundane story is that no one yelled at me, and I had no cavities.

The End