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well, fuck

I was convinced that the deadline for LJI was this coming Tuesday.  I had a piece half written that I'm really pleased with, but....nope.  I got home so late (an hour and twenty fucking minutes of waiting for my relief, then waiting on the cab, and eventually making it home and swigging chardonnay straight from the bottle.  Yeah, and Sundays are supposed to be my EASY day?) it wouldn't have mattered.

I was upset.  I told Kent.  He channelled his dad and suggested that I need to pay more attention to details.  I was about to counter that he needs to start paying more attention to his right hand, because that's about to be his primary relationship if he's going to continue being an asshole when he told me I'm not going to be able to do brunch tomorrow like I'd planned.

He's got training.  For the new job.  So, yeaah, yay and more money and your life isgoing to be easier and fewer cabs and..

Okay.  This is all good stuff.  But.....


And going back to food service on top of it.  Now, technically, dietary manager/kitchen manager is food service of sorts, but it's not the same as a restaurant where expectations lie beyond "edible.  Or at least not toxic."

You know how many residents are going to have abandonment issues?  Kent caters to their whims and goes the extra mile (or six.  Or twelve).  I'm betting the next person in that position won't do the same.

And I'm going to have residents following me around wanting to know where he's gone, and why.  And some who will probably be extra clingy because if *he's* left, what's to stop me?  The majority of the residents see us as a matched set, so....

Yeah.  Yippee.

I *did* have an amazing  moment with a resident this weekend.  She really should be in memory care, but her family insists otherwise (it's ridiculous.  We have people who should be in MC and aren't because of the stigma, and people in MC who shouldn't because their families just wish they would go away).  She spends most of her time holding her baby doll and humming or singing.

Yesterday, I realized that I KNEW that tune.  So I went up to her, knelt down, and started humming with her.

She lit up and grabbed my hand.  And then she started to sing.  And I started to sing with her.

Showtunes.  That gets through to her.  And, hey!  That is so my wheelhouse.

I sat on the floor and held her hand.  She stroked my hair and we sang.

I held it together until she started in with "If I loved you, words wouldn't come in an easy way..."

At least I did the dignified, tears slipping down your cheeks cry.  She did the same thing.

I need to do some research about music and the elderly, especially people with dementia.  I bet we could develop some programs that would be beneficial. Even if it is just sitting around and singing.

And this is why I am probably never leaving this place.  Damn you, Kent!

In other, music-related news, I officially have my ticket to see Alan Cumming!  *swoonthud*  It's not until the end of April, so I need all of y'all to remind me that these extra hours I'm putting in (however unwillingly) are just adding up to me being able to walk up to the merch table and say "I'll take one of everything."

Happy Sunday!  Happy (early) Spring Equinox!

Bonus random question:  if you have an earworm at the moment, what is it?

This is brought to you by the fact that I have had a Sylvia's Mother by Dr. Hook earworm since MONDAY.  No, I don't know why.


Mar. 21st, 2017 03:33 pm (UTC)
i have a cousin who goes to nursing homes and does 'music therapy', playing songs and singing for the residents.


The fucking YARN FAIRY!

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