I’m So Chill

Trigger Warning: Parenting a teenage girl. **Do not read if you are considering having a teenage girl.

Veruca reached a milestone this year. She was promoted from middle school last night, and in a few short months will be a high school freshman. I’ve been more or less indifferent to this particular passage, being otherwise distracted by Opac’s High School Graduation, which commandeered a herculean effort to maintain emotional composure. (More on that in another post.)

Veruca has finally mastered the magnet-to-drama test. Obviously this isn’t exactly a newsflash, if you’ve read any of my previous posts from the last 8 years. But the 8th Grade Social took us to a new level of drama and now I know why my mom always laughed at me and it wasn’t just because she was probably high.

Mom and I took V on her annual birthday shopping trip a few weeks ago, to King of Prussia. I grew up shopping there – the Plaza and the Court – which have evolved into an impressive and massive complex of stores. We spent SIX HOURS shopping. The stamina gene for this has clearly skipped a generation, because the two of them wore me out. Like, panting outside of stores, worn out. Like, I need a wheelchair, worn out. I was posting to Facebook pleading for reinforcements. All I had was iced tea, because I still had to drive home – as it turned out – in rush hour.

V likes clothes, shoes, accessories, Bath & Body Works, and makeup. We were also on the hunt for a dress for this Social/Dance, which I suggested we start with but no one listened to me. Side note: the principal send an email blast a while back advising parents that there was no need to go out and buy a fancy dress. Well, let me tell you, there’s a new generation of kids growing up who are rapidly devaluing the long-traditional rites of passage like “prom” and “graduation.” Freakin middle school girls are wearing PROM GOWNS to a social in the cafeteria. Uh, and then there’s the 8th grade Promotion dress. (For perspective, O wore shorts and a t-shirt to his 8th grade Promotion.)

Anyway. SIX HOURS of shopping in I-lost-count stores and NO DRESS. She spent hours online looking at dresses. I ended up ordering her a RTR* dress, which she said to order and then when it arrived she didn’t really like it and apparently Faith, one of her many middle school fashion consultants, told her it looked like an old lady dress. The next two days were filled with drama over this dress and with 24 hours to go I said, I really don’t care if you wear it or not. I don’t care.

The day of the dance she was STILL not ready after two and a half hours. She was still fussing over her hair. She was still bitching about the dress. But after I VERY nonchalantly told her, fine don’t wear the dress, and did NOT react to her drama, she ended up wearing the dress. I buttoned her up. She disappeared into her room and a few minutes later came out and asked me to button it again.

What did you do that I have to button this again? Nevermind.

Then her shoes were already hurting her feet and did I have some flats she could borrow? I don’t own dressy flats. She went into my closet with me and pulled out a pair of jeweled BCBG sandals I’d gifted myself on my birthday the year of the divorce. I told her they don’t match her dress, and she’s NOT wearing them. (She’s clutzy sometimes and I pictured these shoes coming back to me, straps broken.)

Fine, I’ll just have to wear my shoes and my feet will just have to hurt all night. Yep. (At this point she commented that obviously I don’t care that her feet will hurt.)

Then she complained about her pump*, so I told her to put the clip on it and clip it to the back of her dress. We did that, and I noticed one of the buttons I literally just buttoned was missing. Okay so now maybe I’m not quite so calm anymore. I went into her room, carpeted with every piece of clothing she owns, and started picking them up one-by-one looking for this tiny, fabric button and cursing under my breath.

Meanwhile, it dawned on me that it likely popped off when she bent to buckle her shoes – where did you put on your shoes? I don’t know. What do you mean “you don’t know?” Big dramatic sigh. In the kitchen. And lo and behold, there it was, under the chair. And THEN I had to sew the button back on while she’s in the dress and I prayed like hell I wouldn’t stab her with the needle. I was SO pissed off at her and all the bullshit I actually told her I didn’t care if she even went to this dance.

And THEN… it’s too late now to get to Reena’s for pictures and OMG she told Mel that we’d give her a ride to the dance (news to me)… and I told her to call and find out. It wasn’t too late. I was glad because I wanted to get pictures, which is when she flipped out and told me I wasn’t getting out of the car. Bwahahaha! Like HELL I’m waiting in the car. None of the other parents will either, but she doesn’t believe me until we get there and by the time we get to Reena’s back yard she is all angelic smiles and sweetness and I have whiplash.

The next morning we get up early to drive to her dad’s house and she wakes up nastier than a rattlesnake. As she storms out the door, Todd asks if she’s getting her period. Okay so – before ya’ll get your panties twisted – my husband is NOT a chauvinistic pig and it was a joke meant for me only, as we often share wildly inappropriate jokes between us and ya’ll can’t deny you’ve done it too. Nevertheless, he walked me out to the car where she was already sulking in the passenger seat, wished me a fun ride, and I fake-wailed as he hugged me goodbye.

I get into the car and, I heard what he said and IT’S NOT FUNNY, she hissed at me. It was a joke, V, and I’m sorry if it upset you. Well, IT DID. Three beats of silence… and you better not tell him when I get my period because it’s none of his business. Pulling away from the house: I would never do that and besides, He Doesn’t Care. Yes you would – I know how you are. You’re right – I’m gonna put up a big sign in the front yard so all the neighbors know.

That apparently wasn’t funny either and she went ballistic. As IF. I’m finding that my new milestone is a sense of humor over teenage drama – which is probably just a combination of don’t GAF and pure survival.

The conversation turned to college – how she wants to go to Columbia and she guesses she won’t be able to go there because it’s too expensive, and I mentioned scholarships. You probably think I’m too dumb to go there. And I’m too dumb to get scholarships. Smelling a trap – I tell her that that’s just silly, and that I believe in her. It didn’t work. She’ll just have to go to a State school and apparently I think O is smarter than her (because he’s going to a private college) and I’m going to make her go to community college. (This is a very sensitive statement that has taken an ugly turn and I refuse to engage.)

She was clearly in a very dark mood and she was unable to gauge the reach of her daggers at this point. I will not post what she said. But take note: I did not engage. I just answered her with a level of calm reserved for stoners and that’s when she said it.

What’s WRONG with you?

What’s wrong with ME? (incredulous expression)

Yeah. You’re so…CHILL.

I say nothing, because – I’m so wrong.

And I. Don’t. Like. It.

I’m Chill, and it’s wrong.

Mom – 1

Veruca – 0

 

 

*RTR = Rent the Runway. Used for most of my events where I need a dress. Highly recommend. Designer gowns those of us could never afford to buy, that will make you feel fabulous for a night and guaranteed to bring loads of compliments from complete strangers.  (I’m not being paid for this endorsement, but would gladly accept a free rental from them.)

*Pump = Insulin pump.

 

 

 

 

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I Bought An Indoor Plant & Life Goes On

I did. I haven’t had a true indoor plant since I killed the last one in over 7 years. I say “true” because I do occasionally keep a basil plant inside, until summer, unless it dies before I can move it outside. I have one presently, and it’s still alive so – so far so good. I also currently have the rosemary plant that I brought in for the winter, but those things have to be supernatural because I had a rosemary plant years ago that I left outside all year long; it turned brown and dry – all the symptoms of a dead plant – and then bounced back like it had nine lives.

Anyway. It’s a palm. I saw it and thought – yes! We need plants in the house. I won’t say why we haven’t had them for so long, but it’s not just because I’m a serial plant killer. Veruca saw it and exclaimed, wow! Because it’s way bigger than it looked at the store. And then she said in all seriousness, don’t kill it, mom. And then she said she can’t wait until it drops coconuts. It’s not that kind of palm, but she wasn’t hearing it. Kind of like when she says she’s Chinese even though it’s plainly obvious she has not one percent of Asian in her.

I’m trying to find the emotional balance again. The grief hits me from time to time, when the thought drops like an empty bomb, clearing the hollow of my stomach and reminding me of his absence, and that it is permanent. The stages of grief always catch me by surprise, you know? Like they talk about the stages and it’s like yeah, yeah, that’s what they say. But it’s real. I found myself feeling something other than sadness when I saw others’ posts of their cats. WHY OLIVER?

Anyway, I am busying myself with completing the tasks of tidying, a la Marie Kondo. I have packed up 12 boxes of miscellania and 7 bags of clothing to be donated to Purple Heart. I organized the junk drawer, and the kitchen cabinets are shaping up slowly. No – I’m not following her program to a “t.” But I’m getting the job done and it’s bringing joy.  I folded my clothes Kondo-style and my drawers look like a work of art and I can’t stop opening and closing them. I did Todd’s too – would you believe he owns 78 t-shirts? SEVENTY EIGHT. I told him no one can use that many t-shirts. And this was after we purged some. And then went out shopping and doesn’t he buy 3 more? So that ups the count to 81. (And no – I did NOT buy him a t-shirt at Opac’s college a few weeks ago. Sue me.)

Anyway, emotional balance. I go to work and it’s pleasant and we laugh a lot (well, except for the absurd. More on that later).  At home, this perimenopause business makes me edgy and impatient. It’s probably partly because we have a canine houseguest, and he’s big and hairy and licks his paws. A few people know this makes me absolutely nuts. There’s hair everywhere, something I am not fond of and one reason why poodles are perfect. It’s no secret I have a threshold for tolerance when it comes to changes in the household dynamic.

Other things that make me stabby: slow internet connection, parents who think the student drop-off rules don’t apply to them, really – anyone who thinks the rules don’t apply to them, someone throwing a cigarette out their car window at the grocery store, and everyone who continually undermines my Kondo house. On a larger scale, the horrific lack of justice in the world and the fact that it’s not illegal for evil people to reproduce.

So I’m focusing on my own habits and making healthy changes. I’m back on the self-imposed wagon again, and truth be told: your body will tell you what you need and what you don’t, IF you pay attention. I have a story about that too, for another day.

I have breakfast quinoa simmering on the stove this morning. I made $80 hummus yesterday. It’s $80 because we had to buy a food processor on Sunday (old one crapped out months ago). I started a new 21-day exercise program because I am almost-50-going-on-25 in my head and my body is all like, hey, feel this.  I took a bikini pic yesterday and recorded my weight and intentions in my journal. It’s only 3 weeks. I can do this.

V is running a 5k in a few weeks, and I was aiming to run it with her. Or, rather, at the same time – since she doesn’t think we can keep the same pace. And she’s right. At this point I am not ruling it out, but I’m also not very optimistic about my knees holding up.

In spite of all the dumbfuckery of the present day, Todd and I have confirmed plans for New York and Phantom of the Opera, another trip to Erie for the State Bowling Tournament, and Vegas over the summer, coinciding with the National Bowling Tournament – because, apparently, very little happens without bowling balls. And, to that end, let me say now that also apparently – in case you didn’t know – all balls are not created equal. This was born of a conversation with Todd about how many balls he needs for the tournament, and the answer is four. He needs four balls. Seriously. Because all balls are not created equal. And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

The Absurd (as promised)

*These can also be classified under the “what not to do” tab.

People going through divorce are not normal. (I can say this because I was once one of them and fully understand the crazy.) Sometimes mothers call up tearfully sharing their shitstorm. Others, like the one a couple of weeks ago, forget their manners when they come into the office and turn on us – like, “why don’t you use your knowledge and figure it out?” while attempting to get her child an appointment for “she-doesn’t’-know-what.” (Oh yes, she did.) *For the record, she later called and apologized.

There are also – and this is a fun one – a handful of acrimonious parents who spend their time transferring their kids to other practices, while the other parent is trying to keep them in our office.

What not to do: do not involve us in your custody disputes. Unless there are court documents on file, there is nothing we can do.

Patients in the 16-17 range who arrive for appointments alone. FYI: children under 18 need a parent with them, or at the very least, parental consent to be there alone, and not all offices will even allow that. This situation requires us to call parent and get a verbal, taking up valuable time for other things and not to mention the amount of time said patient is with the provider.                                                                                                           

What not to do: Do not send your minor child to the doctor’s office alone.   I’m all for leading them down the path of adult responsibility, but at least accompany them for it.

And now, my personal favorite:

Parent who calls our office for an appointment Today. Today translates as a “sick” appointment. Child has not been seen in our office. I ask if we have records (this is a requirement to schedule any kind of appointment, as well as what insurance they have and whether or not they have to choose a PCP, which is a whole other story for another time), which is when I find out that child is a patient of another office in our network. I mention this to the parent, as well as the fact that I can see he is scheduled for a well appointment there in less than two weeks (which is going to matter A LOT as the conversation continues).

It is the parent’s responsibility to call the other office and cancel that appointment and inform them they’d like to transfer to our office.* The other office doesn’t “give good service.” I say I’m sorry that he had this experience, but reiterated what I said above. He was surprisingly NOT HAPPY with my response. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t go to any location in the network whenever he wanted; I explained that while we are all connected, we operate as separate offices. That’s when he said this was “like a scene from a socialist movie,” and I have a limited knowledge of political ideologies but I think he might have gotten this one wrong?

*Turns out he wanted a Well appointment not a sick appointment. Currently, well appointments are out at least 3 months, which is why it makes more sense for him to keep the one he already has. It also turns out that the other office doesn’t give good service because he wanted one sooner than that two-week one he already had.

What not to do: Oh my, where to start? Expecting the rules to be changed for you? (see my earlier stabby-trigger) Being rude? 

 

This Is Why I Drink

Yesterday was Monday and I got up for work. I put together food for Todd to take to work to get him started on a healthy diet and weight loss. It wasn’t a stressful morning. I even made him breakfast. We had a snow event Saturday and Sunday so we stayed in all weekend and cooked stuff and V’s dad brought her home for school yesterday so I wouldn’t have to drive in bad road conditions the night before.

Time to leave for work – completely flat tire on the rear left. Thank God Todd was still home so he fixed it and I was only 10 minutes late to work.

I was on phones yesterday in the morning. It’s January. EVERYBODY and their child has something. This week’s special: vomiting, diarrhea, and ear aches. I’m not mentioning the lingering cough we’ve all been reading about because, let’s face it, it’s now part of the regular menu.

Here follows an excerpt of my morning calls, or, what you shouldn’t do when calling your pediatrician’s office.

First difficult call of the day: I had to conference in a translator so I could register a new patient in Spanish. Patient is in his teens. We still accept new patients up to age 16, but Spock would say it’s illogical to go to the trouble of transferring in for only two years.

She wanted to schedule a well visit for him. Now. We need to have records in our office before we can schedule any appointments. I explained this, as well as the fact that we are scheduling well into March, April, and May. What? Oh no! He needs it NOW. She went on and on in Spanish for several minutes, because she was told by our office in November that she would have to call back in January. Ahem. NO ONE could possibly have told her that, because – need records first, then can schedule. Someone clearly misunderstood. She wasn’t backing down. Several more minutes of Spanish where I was able to pick out a handful of words which I shouldn’t have done because it made my head pound. Finally, I gave up engaging in this back and forth, since it wasn’t going to change anything. She still has to bring records in, she still has to change us to his PCP on her insurance, and we still DON’T HAVE ANY APPOINTMENTS BEFORE MARCH. Longest phone call ever, and it was still barely 10 a.m.

Next up: mom calling for a referral. That was the easy part. Then, both her kids needed well child visits; they’re due in February, and… SEE ABOVE. And – she wanted them both seen at the same visit. Easily spent 20 minutes on the phone with her trying to find a time for both children to be seen, NOT with their usual provider because that just ain’t gonna happen if she wants them together. Said she’d take any provider, but not the nurse practitioner (who has appointment availability sooner) because one child has “issues.” Found her an appointment in April with someone, and she happily took it. It just took forever to end this call.

Finally – and believe me there are several more I’ve blocked out – a dad called and wanted his son seen TODAY. By this time, we were completely booked and so I offered to have a nurse call and advise/direct him, or he could go to urgent care. This was before lunch.

Should I take him to the ER instead? That would be your decision… I’m not clinical so I’m unable make recommendations on that.

Well, can you schedule him an appointment for tomorrow?

I’m sorry, I cannot pre-book sick appointments for the next day. I can have one of our nurses call you and advise you and/or we recommend going to urgent care. Or, you can call back tomorrow morning and be scheduled then.

Well, who does the scheduling? I do, and nurses will schedule sick patients who need to be seen.

So why can’t YOU just schedule him for tomorrow?

I am not able to pre-book sick appointments for the next day. But again, I can have a nurse call you and advise you.

Where is urgent care? Will they take my insurance?

There is ******* in ******* or the CHOP urgent care location opens at 4 p.m. YOU will have to check with your insurance about coverage.

Well, can I speak to a nurse?

Absolutely. I will have her call you. What are your son’s symptoms?

He’s been vomiting and has diarrhea.

For the record, I always end my calls with a big smile, hoping against hope that it is felt through the air waves that I am very pleasant and not the least bit annoyed with difficult people.

Also for the record, we DO NOT see patients who have vomiting and diarrhea. And, in case you don’t already know, this is a VIRUS. It has to run its course and there’s absolutely nothing a doctor can do for you. Unless you are dehydrated and unable to keep even water down. THEN, go to the emergency room. Common sense, folks!

I’m just glad I wasn’t on phones after lunch, having to tell everyone who called that we have no more appointments left today. Sounds awful, right? But, this is the way it is in the winter. Everyone is getting sick and there are only so many appointments available in a day. That we were booked by 10:30 a.m. should tell you how many sick kids are out there. Which is why sick calls are triaged… so the nurses can determine who needs to be seen or who just needs home care.

And then today I woke up with headache and GI stuff and an enormous sore on my lip, something I’ve never had like this, ever. It started yesterday at work, and slowly grew but not terrible. This morning, it only added to the issues I woke with – and it is HUGE and ugly. And, it looks like there’s another one brewing on the other side.

The kids were fighting over the washing machine last night – imagine! So these are the arguments I’m diffusing nowadays. Now they’re both doing their own wash and I’m still reeling from the shock of having more time on my hands. Even Opac has taken on the challenge of unclogging a toilet – thus, I haven’t had to do this in a while either. Who ARE these kids living in my house? Still, no one is cleaning the bathroom.

I went to the store on Saturday, which we’ve already determined is to be avoided at all costs. But, necessity boiled over. I turned up an aisle of the parking lot and sat still in my car while three different people, WHO WERE WALKING TOWARD MY CAR, took up the entire aisle. Not one of them thought to move out of my way. Todd said, I’d have blown my horn. And I said, that’s precisely why I left you at home. People inside the store are no better. The rules of the road should apply to shopping cart etiquette but clearly most of these folks missed the memo.

The animals remain constant, though. Sabra is still freaked out by gunshots (we live in redneck land where no celebration is complete without gunfire). She’s shaggy and stinky again and needs the groomer. She runs from me when I pull out the brush. She acts uncomfortable on the couch when we’re home, but I KNOW she’s up there when we’re not because I see paw imprints.

Oliver lies on the couch every day, usually right after I’ve cleaned all of his fur from it. He continues his morning whine for canned goodness, and afterward waits on the kitchen stool for one of us to turn on his video game. For reals. There’s an animated mouse video on YouTube we put on for him, and he stands on the counter and bats at these mice like Rocky Balboa. Hey – it’s exercise. At least until he tires himself out and lies down on the counter and just watches them go by.

 

Miscellaneous:

Other things to keep in mind when going to your pediatrician:

We don’t prescribe birth control pills.

Pink eye = extremely contagious. You will not be seen for that. Prescriptions are called in.

You cannot be “billed” for your copay. (Well, it does happen, but generally speaking, NO.)

Do not, I repeat, DO NOT “walk in” to the office without an appointment. And, to that end, if your child fell through a plate glass door and is bleeding in multiple places, DO NOT go to the pediatrician’s office. You need to go to the ER.

Fevers that come and go with ibuprofen – will come and go with ibuprofen. In other words, fever returns when the medication wears off? Of course it does. And there’s never a dumb question or first time parent who doesn’t worry about what seems like the smallest things. Don’t be afraid to call for the nurse. Just don’t holler at the front desk person who has parameters to follow for scheduling sick appointments.

Likewise, please don’t holler at the scheduler who can’t pull well visits out of their ass for you. First come, first serve is a real thing ya’ll.

Don’t get mad at the front desk when your ex-wife told you the appointment time was a half-hour earlier than it actually is. Also, by the same token, do not involve us in your domestic disputes. There is nothing we can do about it, unless there are court documents.

When your child turns 18, they are a legal adult. They should be transitioning to an adult provider, but until they do, please know that without your new adult’s consent, we are unable to discuss his/her healthcare with you. It’s the LAW.

Finally, realize that your child is one of hundreds of patients in a practice. We care about all of them, but there are only so many doctors and nurses, and we can’t always perform miracles. Use patience and kindness when asking for what you want, and that kindness and patience will be returned.

 

 

 

Three Days In, and I’m Stabby

giphy-8

I had planned a nice New Year post or two – you know, reflecting on 2016 and then looking ahead to 2017 and possible resolutions. But, it happened again… PMS rolled in like that relative everybody hates to spend the holidays with and now I’m p-o’d and blocked.

It all started Saturday morning. Or, maybe it was the day before when the pets reminded me that vacations mean nothing to them. But I recovered from that and went on to enjoy a Christmas party with the bowling league that was filled with entertainment for all the senses. It had everything – good food, juicy gossip, drive-by smooches (don’t ask), shots, hilarious stories, … oh yeah, and Todd was throwing strikes. Chocolate Cake shots, by the way, do not taste like chocolate cake. I haven’t been drinking lately, so when one friend ordered the next shot – Duck Farts – and I asked what the hell it was, I knew it was going to be a long car ride home.

So, it really all started Saturday morning. Todd had scheduled an appointment with our solar guy to talk about adding more solar to our existing panels. I knew the house was less than – okay, I knew it wasn’t clean – but I figured they’d sit at the dining room table and so Jim Kirk (I swear to GOD) wouldn’t have to go where no man has gone in three days. I was wrong.

I went to the kitchen for coffee and heard them in the living room. And I saw a dirty pair of socks lying on the kitchen floor that’d be hard to miss on one’s way to the living room. Next to the table covered with the aftermath of our get-together with my dad, stepmom and brother three days before. And the kitchen counters littered with debris and dirty dishes piled in the sink. And I knew that the living room wasn’t much better, between a carpet that had grown its own pet hair and the bed pillows and blanket tossed carelessly aside from the morning before. AND… the Christmas tree wasn’t lit. Why the HELL hadn’t Todd at least thought to light the damn tree? It stood, wilting in its darkened corner, just four feet away from where they were sitting like the fucking grim reaper.  Oh yeah, and my pot of herbs I’d brought inside that looks more like a bucket of weeds I keep forgetting to water, than the succulent herbs they once were. I was mortified. MORTIFIED. And, not a little PISSED.

Jim, for his part, seemed unaffected by the ambience. He’s probably seen worse, but I didn’t want MY house to rank up there with them. Todd told me it wasn’t a big deal. He doesn’t worry about stuff like this, which is infuriatingly both a good thing and a mortal flaw.

PMS also takes me down the road of intolerance, which seems to have hit an all-time high this year. I know it’s only the third day. But this isn’t a safe way to start a new year. At least not for the bystanders.

There’s a very fine line between charity and taking advantage. I’m standing on the precipice of intolerance for what I feel has all the appearances of taking advantage. When one has clearly defined expectations and boundaries – no matter whether those are ignored, overlooked, or forgotten – I’m not very tolerant when things begin to look very different. So, I’m going through this again. It’s an opportunity to reevaluate what we wanted in the first place and how to get back to the original plan.

Meanwhile, I’m sweating the little stuff. Something happened recently, whether by ignorance or intention, that was a clear exclusion of Me. My first reaction was, oh. Quickly followed by thoughts that instantly reminded me that my stepmom wouldn’t have missed this slight, and I know she’d never let us hear the end of it. Sidenote: my stepmom is an exceptional woman I spent my early twenties silently judging only to learn and fully understand (read: eat my words) many of those things as I moved into adulthood, and I have nothing but the utmost love and respect for her.

Anyway, I journaled it and now cryptically posted it here just to annoy you. Because misery loves company. Because I’m annoyed that the tent rental company who provided us the tent for my in-laws’ 50th anniversary party sent out a generic email thanking me for my business and… we value you, blah blah blah, and we’re following up to see if  you’re planning a similar event this year and to lock in last year’s prices now, blah blah… and I’m thinking, how many 50th anniversary parties do you think we have? I know, picky picky. That’s what PMS does to you, people.

Which is why we shouldn’t go out in public for two weeks every month. Because today I took Veruca to a dermatologist and the dude seriously thought I was there for the bags under her eyes. Yes, she has bags under her eyes – she’s been on vacation for 10 days and hasn’t been to bed before 11 o’clock since Christmas Eve. BUT. That is not why we were there, and I had to correct him and then insist he take a closer look. Anyway, he confirmed what we thought it was. But it took all I had not to start spitting and snarling at this so-called professional. So not safe for him.

Everywhere else I went today, everyone was off their game. Everyone. I felt like I was surrounded by aliens impersonating humans. Badly. And they’d look at me with their weird eyes, trying to see if I knew.