It's That Time Again!

Yes! Fall is in the air, the leaves are starting to turn, football season is heating up, Thanksgiving is just around the corner - and I'm having a nervous breakdown.

Now, don't cry for me, Blogentina, because this isn't any big special surprise news. I have a nervous breakdown every year about this time. It's an odd thing. I know it's coming, I see it coming, it comes, and there's not a damn thing I seem to be able to do about it.

And the fact that it always happens this time of year, of course, has to do with the fact that we're three to four weeks smack-dab into the middle of Oktoberfest. My NBD (nervous breakdown) always comes three to four weeks smack-dab into the middle of Oktoberfest.

It basically happens a little bit like this. Well, it actually happens exactly like this, every year. First week of Oktoberfest - Oh, joy! It's Oktoberfest time again! I'm leaving work early every Friday, putting on my outfit! I'm driving up the mountain, all nervous and tingly! There's German food! As much German food as I can eat! There's beer, and Goldschlager shots! Clarinet Polka! Singing, toasting, making rude jokes!

Three weeks later, and it goes a little bit, meaning of course exactly, like this, every year. Third week of Oktoberfest - Oh, God. I'm leaving work early every Friday, putting on the iron prison that is my outfit. I'm driving up the mountain, all weary and unenthused. If I have to look at any more German food, I think I'll puke. Beer's too heavy, and Goldschlager's too sweet. How will I fuck up the Clarinet Polka tonight? God, please not more singing and toasting, and by the way, I've heard that joke before, along with all the other ones, including the ones I myself make.

And then, sometime along in there I'll be driving home late at night and I'll start sniffling, and shaking my head, and making little whining noises, and by the time I've arrived back home I've thrown myself onto the couch, bawling like a baby and asking myself what on God's Green Earth I've done to deserve this. How a person can do what I've been doing and possibly survive till the end of it. Why me, why is it always so hard on me, poor delicate flower of a soul that I am.

And after about an hour of this my tears subside a bit, and I answer the "what have I done to deserve this" question with "because you wanted to," and I try to toughen up a little, and then the nervous breakdown starts to go away, and I go on, limping, till the end of Oktoberfest.

Then, of course, the last weekend of Oktoberfest I want to cry because I'm going to miss it all so much until next year.

Now, mainly, this whole NBD thing comes about because by week three to four, I'm just plain old garden variety tired. I'm so tired sometimes I don't feel like I can't put one foot in front of the other, much less in a dirndl while playing "The Clarinet Polka." And the fatigue comes from doing Sauerkraut Band season while trying to live my normal life at the same time. So here's what a week in October has become for me. Working all day at TheCompanyIWorkFor, coming home, doing housework, finding time to walk, making sure I have clean clothes, blogging, podcasting, judging acro, driving 90 minutes to band on Wednesdays, 90 minutes home, packing for the weekend, then driving the same amount of time up the mountain on Fridays and home, driving the same amount of time on Saturday to Mr M's, where we head back up the mountain together, then home to his house, then driving back to B'field on Sunday, hoping I have some pictures for Picture Sunday, and knowing that unless some kind soul volunteers to be creative on my behalf, I'll have to think up and make a recipe du jour on Sunday afternoon while staving off phone calls from my parents to have me come over there and have dinner so they can stare at me.

And that's a normal week. Sometimes I travel out for a pedicure, or haircut, or there's a Community Band concert or other Sauerkraut Band gig on one of the free nights, which causes more driving and puts all housework, laundry, etc, out of kilter. Then there was last week, where I skipped Community Band on Wednesday but more than made up for it Thursday by working half a day and driving to see the Hackensaw Boys the other half, seeing The Boys, dancing, drinking, staying up late, then getting up early to drive back home, changing into the prison that is my dirndl, driving up the mountain, etc etc etc.

And now, check out what this week has in store for me. Working, walking, cleaning, podcasting, blogging, judging acro, going to Community Band this week, shopping tonight for the brother-in-law's birthday present, packing for the weekend, going up the mountain Friday, back home that night, then Saturday I have to be in Roanoke (a 2½ hour drive) at 11am for a Sauerkraut Band gig that will last most of the day, and from Roanoke we haul our cookies back up the mountain for Oktoberfest, then back to Mr M's, and Sunday afternoon I have a Community Band concert, after which I'll drive about 2 hours back home just in time to go to the brother-in-law's birthday dinner where my parents will stare at me, and, well, folks, if I were yall I wouldn't really expect a Picture Sunday. Just don't expect one and be pleasantly surprised if it happens.

So if I was brave enough to look out my picture window, which believe me I'm not, I have a feeling I'd see the Nervous Breakdownmobile on the street outside my house, with his left turn signal on to enter my driveway. And I have the same kind of feeling that Sunday night might be boo-hoo night on the couch for me.

Next Friday I won't be able to leave work early, and so getting up the mountain on time is going to be a rather dicey proposition. As will Wednesday after next, when the Sauerkraut Band has a Wednesday show in B'burg and I can't leave work early. See, if only a dirndl was proper work attire. Then I wouldn't have to take all that time getting ready, and could just zip from work to where I need to be. On that Wednesday gig I guess I'll be running in the door as the first song is in progress, tying up my apron and still putting my horn together. If I'm lucky. But that's the future, and I'd just as soon not think about it right now.

Now, let me impart this little goodie on you. Along with the rush of life and Oktoberfest, as I said, I'm also doing my everyday work stuff as well. I've known for about three weeks now that by October 13 I have to take an online class and exam to recertify to help old people buy Medicare Part D. I did this last year, blogged about it, it made my life very busy and nervous, and now that the government has decided to change a lot of rules about it all I find myself having to re-test. According to TheCompanyIWorkFor, the test takes 45 minutes and a person gets two chances to pass it, or they have no recertification and can't help old people buy Medicare Part D anymore.

Since 45 minutes (and that was just for the test) of uninterrupted time is impossible in my office, I'd planned to stay late from work and take the class and test tonight.

When I got back from lunch today, the boss was flashing her new recertification paper at me and said, "Listen, it doesn't take 45 minutes. Just forget the online class, go straight to the test and take it, and if you get a question you don't know the answer to, ask me."

This is cheating. I did not care. I wanted this thing out of my life, and we found out from last year's onslaught of old people (because many came by our office specifically to tell us this) that we were taking care of their needs and helping them with their Medicare Part D plans better than anyone else in town who was doing it. So I fired up the test and had at it.

Many of the questions were easy ethical questions, but I finally hit a question that involved new Open Enrollment or Special Enrollment or Annual Enrollment periods, and so I read the question to the boss. Instead of answering the question and letting me get back to it - she came back to my office and stood right over my fucking shoulder the entire rest of the test, telling me what answers to put in. This made me an absolute nervous wreck, but I took her advice, answered the questions, and pushed the "submit" button. I failed. I was one question away from success.

And so I fired up the test and had at it again, with the boss over my fucking shoulder the entire time again, telling me what to answer. I pushed the submit button. I failed again. Again, I was one question away from success.

And so I failed my two tests. Actually, my boss failed my two tests. I guess that's what I get for cheating, but the upshot of it all is that I cannot recertify. I cannot, at least in 2007, help old people buy Medicare Part D.

And I got depressed. I have this thing in me about passing tests. I don't care what it is, if I'm taking a test, failure is not an option, at least not until today, when failure was not only an option, it was a cruel fact of life.

I went and had a nice pee for myself ("Oof!"), and while I was sitting there dreading getting up, for the pain in my pulled muscle and the fact that it would make me have to go back to work, I decided to change my whole attitude about failure. I spent hour upon hour this past year helping old people buy Medicare Part D, and what did I get for it? Nothing. I got behind in my other work, I didn't get one single penny of compensation, and I didn't even get a pat on the head from the boss, TheCompanyIWorkFor, or TheCompanyThatShillsMedicarePartD. So fuck it. Fuck the whole thing. It's now one less task at work I'll have to perform. Let someone else worry about it in the coming year. Thank you, God, for the failure!

Still, the NBD is signaling to turn into my driveway. It's OK, though. It'll only last an hour or so.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Before you have your nervous breakdown, rest assured that there is a new hucklebug podcast up and ready to go. Go here to access it via website, or listen through iTunes. And enjoy!