Ask Dr. Ding

It’s been a long, weird summer. First I quit a job that had become tiresome for so many reasons. Then I accepted another job, took off a few weeks of planned vacation and professional conferences only to find upon returning in July that my schedule had been fucked up beyond all recognition <—highly clinical term that is abbreviated as “fubar” in the very elegant, sexy nomenclature of the helping professions.

I gave said practice an ultimatum and subsequently fired my boss. The funny part? He sends his poor beleaguered office manager to beg forgiveness two weeks later, which only reaffirmed my conviction that I had indeed done the right thing. I mean honestly….if you have to send in a proxy groveller two weeks after the fact to do your apology-making for you, what kind of lame are you? Tardy and malignantly narcissistic, that’s what kind.

Anyshizzle. Somewhere in all of this I hired a new employer, a nationwide hospitalist practice specializing in long-term care. I’ve never worked for Big Shrinka, nor did I know such a term existed until just now when I invented it. I call my local bosses “the shrink wranglers” and sometimes “my handlers” because I find it apt: although my licensure allows me to practice independently, it’s nice to have stuff like billing, clerical support, referrals, insurance verification, payroll, scheduling, marketing, and even driving directions all taken care of so that I can just focus on providing service. Doing anything other than direct care tends to make me bugfuckers.

I’ve been slowly ramping up my caseload at the new practice, which is NOT how I’m used to doing things. Dr. Ding is known for her superior footspeed and viselike kung-fu grip to be sure, but she is especially celebrated so for her ability to hit the ground running and storm the ramparts of mental illness instead of, say, collapsing into a heap. I’m used to full-tilt boogie. Panic mode. Every patient coming in hot with one engine and a bogey on their tail.

I’m not used to being approached with this genteel sort of “Oh I say, Miss Doctor Ladyperson. Would you mind terribly if perhaps we referred you another patient, perchance next week or at your convenience? We don’t want to cause you any consternation. Oh heavens, no! Crumpet? Spot of tea?” with everyone trundling off contentedly to play tiddlywinks behind the topiary. It’s splendid so far, although I have developed an unusual fascination with watercress sandwiches.

So there’s been a lot of down time in the last couple of months. What does a shrink do when she’s not seeing 50+ patients a week and spending 4 out of 5 days on the road?

Read: I decided to read everything by Raymond Chandler, since many of my favorite authors like Michael Connelly and Jim Butcher cite him as a major influence. I’ve plowed my way through the major novels, and am in the middle of the first of two volumes of his collected short stories. As a result, I want to resurrect 1940s-1950s film noir gangster parlance something awful, see?

Write: I’ve started a couple of short stories. My novellas are just sort of dying on me, so I decided the short story route might prove more productive. So far, so good.

Not write: Obviously I ain’t been blogging much. I find it interferes with my newly-acquired hardboiled lifestyle, what with the sleuthing and sapping and so forth. And my Lifestyle/Sex editor at UGO.com I think has either been eaten by bears or has befallen some similar Gashlycrumb Tinies sort of fate, so you won’t find me over there much, either. In other news, I just realized I’ve been blogging for a condom site, because isn’t “Lifestyles” a brand? Mom was right, this blog IS: “Raunchy!”.

Create: I’ve taken two ridic fun beading classes over at Nova Beads in the Heights where I learned to do wire-wrapped pendants and loops. Keeps me from getting chilled by the trouble boys. I’ve also been stealthily cruising the aisles at Bead Atelier up on North Shepherd, drooling and goggling at all the pretty pretty things. And I’ve been trying to hit Craft Night at The Caroline Collective on Tuesdays to make sure I actually put some of my precious beady treasures to good use. I’ve made three necklaces and a bracelet and I have plans to make shitloads more. At this rate, I am forced to include a bead/wire budget into my whole ongoing bid for world domination thing. I will likely substitute festive earrings for the red pushpins I’ve been using to date.

Be: The Beyoncé and I have been taking Introduction to Zen classes at The Houston Zen Center. I started up my meditation practice again about a month before this, and I’ve been semi-regular with zazen (seated meditation) since. Last week we learned kinhin, walking meditation. It was really, really hard. My “monkey mind” likes to chatter and WOW does it ever have one entertaining potty mouth; some days I can settle right into meditation, but other days I am so distracted by my own “raunchiness” I want to immediately jump up and write stuff down. I am learning to trust that if my thoughts and ideas are really that significant, I will remember them later. Although it’s quite different from my usual style of meditation and doesn’t come naturally to me, I find the directness and simplicity of Zen deeply refreshing. Pretty funny for someone who loves drag queens, glitter and now shiny beads, eh? I think so too. But then again I never said I wasn’t a mass of delicious paradox. Heh.

Style: I haven’t really felt jazzed about my hairstyle situation since the 1980s when I sported raccoon eyeliner, a surly sneer, a rat tail and gelled spikes. But thanks to Super Kawaii Mama‘s YouTube tutorial, I’ve finally learned how to do killer vintage hair, which I feel suits my personality, not to mention my current fascination with noir detective fiction. Ah yes, hakuna matata, circle of life, and so forth. I’m now on a quest to find giant floral hair clips, à la Billie Holiday. She was killer bee.

Listen: I’ve discovered the joys of Pandora as well as Last.fm, which allow you to discover and share all kinds of cool music. Right now I’m into Django Reinhardt, Cesaria Evora, Thievery Corporation, Biz Markie, Big Daddy Kane, LisaLisa & Cult Jam, Cameo, Nine Inch Nails and all sorts of other stuff. Don’t try to make sense of it, you’ll get itchy.

Reconnect: I got on LinkedIn and Facebook (FINALLY) in late June and discovered people I haven’t spoken to in over 20 years. And then almost immediately remembered exactly why we hadn’t spoken in that long. I kid, I kid. It’s been an overhwhelmingly positive experience. The chick that very inexpertly bullied me in 7th grade even apologized after friending me. I barely recalled her poorly-worded threats, and she’s a total sweetheart now, so it’s all good and we don’t have to have that dancey West Side Story rumble after all. Nice!

I also located some folks I with whom suffered through CCD* classes, a shared bond of guilt, repression and awkward small group discussion that is deeper than blood. My Drama Club cronies, former known associates, and well-wishers are, with a few exceptions, back in touch, as are a lot of my college friends. I was found by this awesomely cool chick I lost touch with after gradeschool, Katy St. Clair, who wrote a hilarious long-running bar-review column for SFWeekly and who now has a contract to write a book on why folks with developmental disabilities love them some Huey Lewis. I could go on, but I don’t want to make a new paragraph. To say it’s all been fantastic would be an understatement.

So that’s what I did on my summer staycation. I’ve managed to leave out some other interesting bits, such as attending my first BarCamp ever at BarCampHouston3, hosting (and finally getting to meet!) JeAnne & Co. from NOLA for Hurricane Gustav, which we dubbed their “hurrication,” not to mention having some awesome lunches with a group of Houston women, @L_W_L, or Ladies Who Lunch. I am all about lunch.

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*My awesome Cousins Who Shall Remain Nameless used to say CCD stood for “Central City Dump” but it actually stands for Confraternity of Christian Doctrine, for those of you out there raised in non-Mackerel Snapper families. Basically it equated to going to Mass on Sunday followed by catechism class that night, and some sort of “activity night” on Wednesdays. I remember a lot of flip charts upon which we were supposed to write all the many “Fruits of the Holy Spirit” that we’d get FOR SURE once we got confirmed. I was as much of a cynical delinquent in CCD classes as I was in regular school, so when I wasn’t playing hookey via an elaborate system of forged notes and British accents, I usually just made up flowery sentiments and misquoted poetry and hoped for the best. Don’t judge.