Category Archives: america

On a/the First Date, Fatefully

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date night dress

(Candid. I like that I’m carrying leftovers and a rose in one hand and making a fist with the other.)

Is there anything better than the promise of what could be? Last night was one of those rare instances where the experience far outweighs the anticipation.

Dinner was set for 7:17 – a time mutually agreed upon by all parties. I was nervous all day; I scrubbed off the black nail polish that I’ve been sporting, worried about what black might say about me (entirely forgetting that nail polish doesn’t talk at all). Dissatisfied with my naked nails, I painted them a soft gray. Dissatisfied with that, I went back to nothing and groaned inwardly about wasting so much time being silly.

Construction near colfax

I was ready early. I’m never ready early. I walked; I entered the restaurant – I had home field advantage; I panicked. I didn’t see him, so I let the hostess seat me, only to find myself directly perpendicular to a friend and his girlfriend. After making awkward small talk, I sipped water and texted him. He had walked past the restaurant. I was buried in my phone, texting him a map, when I heard my name and looked up. There he was. We laughed after checking our phones and confirming that it was indeed exactly 7:17. Panic subsided and conversation flowed. The pineapple curry was exactly as it always is: comfortably perfect. And so was the night.

We wandered to my favorite bar, which was oddly noisy and annoying. Then, we prepared to walk to the dessert bar he’d been dying to try. I realized we were about to embark on a walk that would tear my feet apart, since I was wearing very sensible yet oddly antagonistic heels. I smiled and told him not to judge me as I peeled off my tights (on Colfax, of course, classy lady that I am) and stuffed them in my purse. Carrying my shoes and walking barefoot, I let him take my hand as we walked in search of chocolate cake.

Chocolate cake

He draped his jacket around my shoulder when I got cold. He gripped my hand as he attempted to steer me away from gross things on the sidewalk – I’m a very nimble side-stepper, and successfully avoided all the horror the city pavement had in store for my naked feet. He laughed when I talked as he kissed me good night.

It was lovely. It far exceeded my expectations. I fell asleep smiling. I have received confirmation that he shares my sentiments, as we have scheduled another dinner and made tentative plans to journey to the Southwest. I’m not kidding, it was that good. Here’s to strange and wonderful things in strange and wonderful places. 

On Red Rocks and Night Skies, Blissfully

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I went to Red Rocks Amphitheater to see the Airborne Toxic Event play with DeVotchKa and the Colorado Symphony last Thursday night.

I love Red Rocks.

devotcha airborne toxic event colorado symphony

If you’ve never been, you must go.

You will park in the parking lots. You will drink beer that you keep in a cooler in your trunk, or you’ll pour wine into plastic cups. You will laugh. You will watch people far drunker than you. You will overhear conversations. You will climb up the entrances to the amphitheater. You will be frisked. You will take your blanket somewhere, anywhere really, regardless of what your ticket says.

As night falls, you will get chills, not because you’re cold. You will look around you at the mass of people moving to the music. You will feel the earth around you. You will see the walls of the red rocks rising around you. You will look up and see nothing but the black sky, dotted with stars. Everything that weighs you down will be lifted for those moments. You will feel like a part of something.

Since my post seriously lacks eloquent writing, I’m just going to throw pictures from a long time ago into it to make it seem more legit.

Sunrise over Denver Red Rocks

(Sunrise over Denver from Red Rocks, 2007. Above and below.)

Sunrise Over Denver From Red Rocks

I’m 89% certain this is Red Rocks….if not, it’s St. Marys Alice, but that can’t be right. So yes, Red Rocks:

Sunrise Red Rocks Denver

Colorado, you’re beautiful.

On Work and Then More Work, Industriously

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You’re probably wondering why the once-a-weekday posts have slammed to a painful halt.

First, I’ve been trying to avoid getting political. Not that I’m one to bite my tongue (ever), but I’ve been particularly careful this election season. I’ve got a lot to say, and usually this would result in long-winded rants, but I’ve managed to keep a lot of it under wraps. Hopefully as we get closer to the election, I’ll find a modicum of courage to let the rants out and you’ll get some serious content.

Second, I started another job. I use the word “started” rather loosely, as I have returned to the location where I was first gainfully employed at the tender age of 16. Nights and weekends have become such a joyous time for me (not), as I schlep bits of my dignity along with every ounce of ice cream I come in contact with.

(Not that this is an undignified job, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that I thought I’d graduate from college and do one job and go from there. Instead, I’m entirely financially independent and employed, but simultaneously whining and stressed and it’s become a huge clusterfuck of professional responsibility and maturity and balancing. And Mr. Romney, if you’re curious, I do pay federal income tax, but since I’m in such a low tax bracket, I’m happily Rothing the shit out of my 401(k) – sort of. I contribute that maximum percentage of my wages that will be matched by my company in some form or another – in the hopes that some day I’ll be in a much higher tax bracket [I have some serious post-retirement goals that need funding. Custom claw-footed bathtubs don’t come cheap] and I’ll get to reap the benefits of the years I spent working my ass off to make ends meet. No handouts here. Not much sleep, either.)

I find that even though I care less, I’m working harder. I used to be intimidated by customers and their nasty attitudes toward service industry employees. Now, I’m sassier and not into taking any shit.  I’m polite, charming, and wonderful, but cross me and I swear…

When I was in college, I once got asked if I was literate. (You may find it surprising, but I am.) I frequently got called, “Sir.” Now, I’d laugh it off, but as an already self-conscious teenager, being mistaken for a member of the opposite sex was humiliating.

One of my favorite (favorite is too generous. most memorable, perhaps?) incidents occurred at the Highlands Ranch store. (For those of you not from Colorado, Highlands Ranch is exactly what it sounds like: an unnecessarily pretentious suburb full of money but lacking substance and character.) I had gotten over-zealous with the chocolate pump and chocolate syrup was splattered all over my shirt. A man approached the counter and said, “You look like a Jackson Pollock painting.” I glared. (I’m known for my glares. 90% of the time, they’re unintentional, but 100% of the time, they’re deadly.) “He’s an artist. You should look him up some time,” he drawled in that I’m-speaking-slower-than-normal-so-you’ll-understand-what-I’m-saying voice. He hung onto the word artist for a ridiculously long time. I glared more. To this day, I hate Jackson Pollock, chocolate syrup, and men. (Just kidding about the men part. Mostly.)

I hate the khaki pants, the visors, the ice cream freckles stuck to my arms, and the back aches. Whenever I’m leaning over, stretching my lower back and thinking about reaching for the ibuprofen, I’m always reminded of Barbara Ehrenreich’s Nickel and Dimed, in which she works in jobs much like this one.

I’m enjoying the ease of recognition, the way that my muscles remember how to make things, the way that my cones come out perfectly. I’m enjoying my co-workers – several of them are holdovers much like me from high school. We’re all out of college and working one or two or more jobs. Dairy Queen seems to be a comfortable reminder of where we came from and the hours are spent happily conversing and teasing. I’m also enjoying the unlimited access to chocolate ice cream Reese’s and banana Blizzards.

Now that I’m the most single I’ve been in three or more years (by choice), I was joking that between the car whose bumper is held together with duct tape and the Dairy Queen uniform, including the topping stains and my Dr. Scholl’s shoes, I am prime dating material. “God, I’ve missed working with you,” said one of my co-workers after I’d made the declaration of premium date-ability, followed with an exaggerated wink, which made me happy.

It’s funny, because I’ll find myself thinking about software databases while I’m blending Blizzards. Hopefully I don’t start having work dreams. I can only imagine how the nightmares will go. Ice cream monsters and SQL errors. Missed deadlines and expired milk.

I’m going to keep going as long as my body and mind can hold out. Here’s to finding inner strength, superior calendaring and task-juggling abilities, and the sass/positivity to get through each day without losing my mind. But mostly, here’s to the pursuit of that elusive, possibly non-existent American dream. Here’s to baby steps and forward progress. Here’s to looking back on these tumultuous years and patting myself on the back for dedication and determination. Here’s to finding the path and building a solid future. Here’s to hope, learning, and personal and professional growth.

If you’re in the mood for what I’m in the mood for today, click here. (That was not meant nearly as dirty as it sounded. The answer is Credence. It will make you feel good, I promise.)

On the Weather and the China, Pragmatically

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Winter is coming.

(God, can you tell that I’m impatient for new Game of Thrones? I’m about to dive into the books, so wish me luck. I’m usually a book-before-television kind of girl, but when they’re as complicated as this story, it’s usually a good idea to be able to visualize characters and general plot trajectories.)

But seriously, winter is coming. The cat is eager to snuggle against me, stealing my warmth and reminding me that I’m only good as a food provider and occasional attention-giver. The windows have been closed, but if you aren’t quick enough to grab a towel when you step out of the shower, the air feels crisp and cold through the windows. The plus side to all this unease about winter is that there will be snow for potential snowboarding (I still haven’t figured out about that this year) and that I will be able to drink hot tea without feeling silly. During the winter, I order tea by the case and drink it all day.

The thought of hot baths is a welcome one, but it’s also interspersed with images of standing on the busy street next to my house trying to scrape off my car in between spurts of traffic. It’s interspersed with ice chipping and sliding and being late because I forget that you have to warm up your car before you can command it to warm you. I’m excited, I swear. I love hot cider (with rum!) and crunching leaves and snowboarding, but I hate being cold. Unfortunately, those things are a package deal.

Colorado is one of those magical places where it can be like 40 degrees in the morning and then 85 in the afternoon, so there are at least two months a year where I’m just plain uncomfortable. I’m cold or I’m too hot, overdressed because I was concerned about being too cold. It’s terrible. And while the answer is layers, layers, layers!, I still haven’t found tearaway pants that don’t make me look like I’m about to play basketball or a stripper. (That’s a joke – I don’t want to own tearaway pants.)

(Hilarious [to me] story about my brother: When he was in 8th grade, he was at the high school to play basketball, and in front of the entire girls’ team, he ripped off his snap-away warm up pants only to realize that he hadn’t put on shorts.)

Yesterday was one of those days. I knew that it was going to warm up, but I was cold. So I wore jeans and a t-shirt and managed to nearly melt into the pavement a short time later. I hung out with a friend that I’ve not seen in a long time, and after grabbing lunch on Saturday, we headed to the local farmer’s market on Sunday and then off to the flea market.

I had never been to Denver’s flea market before yesterday. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but I found that it was a lot like the Maxwell Street market in Chicago and the Muizenberg market in Cape Town: lots of pure junk and then some awesome stuff. My friend was looking for furniture for her house – she has lots of space and a small budget. And of course, Pinterest has made us all believe that we are DIY-masters. (We’re not.)

I wasn’t looking for anything specific, but since I love shiny things, I knew I’d want to buy something. As we wound through the aisles – just like Muizenberg – clothes, and tires, and clothes, and auto parts, and clothes, etc. – I spotted them. Dishes, laying in a pile on a blanket.

Salem China Company English Village Flea Market

I knew I wanted them. I have loved the blue/white china patterns since I was a little girl (thank you, Grandma, for always having blue dishes – I think your taste in plates led to a subconscious love of blue that I will carry with me forever. You’re not wrong to love the color combination).

I failed miserably at bargaining – something I’m usually really proud of. Africa taught me a lot of things, and one of them is the art of negotiation. The approach, the feigned disinterest after initial interest, the offer, the rejection, the walking-away, the wait!, the agreement, the deal. Yesterday went like this:  $50, they’re worth a lot more. Will you take $40? No. I’ll be back. $45? No. Fine, I’ll take them. Do you have a box?

My friend, on the other hand, had someone much more willing to negotiate and ended up with a record player/cabinet thing (I’m sure it has a name) for well under the initial asking price.

Both of us walked away satisfied. I got home and Googled the dishes. They’re antiques, made by a china company that stopped making stuff in the early 60s. They’re worth a lot more than $50 – replacement pieces start at $5 each and go up to $25 for a teacup and saucer and much higher for the plates, so I’m thinking that even though there was a breakdown in bargaining, I made out all right.

All in all, I got more than 25 pieces: 6 dinner plates, 6 teacups and 7 saucers, 6 fruit bowls (dessert bowls?), a serving platter, and a large(ish) bowl. Somehow that counted out to 29 last night as I was washing them, but now it doesn’t seem to add up. 27? Whatever. I’m pleased as punch about the whole set, even if I’m now going to have to start taking my tea and coffee in delicate cups instead of massive mugs. (When did I start “taking” tea?)

Now, I’m on the hunt for mismatched bowls. Instead of trying to find a cohesive set of dishes, I’m just going to find ones I like and end up with an eclectic array. We have more plates than we know what to do with and like 2 bowls. So Goodwill and Target, I’m coming for you!

Release notes:

Totally cried about this new Google Chrome commercial called “Jess Time.” Growing up is really painful sometimes, and I love how the Google people manage to capture so much human emotion in their ad spots.  The Love Story one gets me every time. 

On Statistics, Offensively

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The Harvard Business Review emails me a daily stat every day. Why? I don’t know, maybe it’s the direct correlation between my assumed importance and the amount of email clogging my inbox every day. Or perhaps it’s the thought that one day, this stat will somehow come into play in the final round of bar trivia.

I can see it now – it’s the final question, we’re down by 15, ready to throw in the towel and bet zero to finish third, or worse. Everyone turns and looks at me, and I raise my chin in a combination jaunty-defiant smirk and then I lift the pencil (I hate pencils so much – they’re never sharp. They’re dull and sad and horrible) and scribble the answer. Then we will win, beating the second place team by a narrow 5. There will be cheers, and yelling, and confetti….

Since this is reality and that’s not likely to happen, ever, I stick to reading my daily stat, because I’m weak. I’m the worst at unsubscribing from things. I hover over the “unsubscribe” button and then I think, “Wait! What if at some point something contained in this or future emails is useful?” and then I don’t. And then I complain because my email inboxes are littered with junk.

But today’s stat made me laugh out loud in the grocery store.

Anti-Atheist Bias Is Based on Distrust of Nonbelievers

In a series of psychological experiments conducted in Vancouver, Canada, participants revealed that they considered atheists to be less trustworthy than a number of groups often considered to be outliers, including Muslims, gay men, and feminists, and only as trustworthy as rapists, according to a team led by Will M. Gervais of the University of British Columbia. The lack of trust in atheists may reflect people’s assumption that individuals tend to behave more ethically if they believe they are being monitored by a higher power, the researchers suggest.

My first thought was “What’s wrong with feminists?!” and then I forwarded the message to Maddie. My eloquent message? “Lol feminists.” Her response? “Haha, never trust a feminist. Or a rapist.”

I identify as agnostic, so I’m not nearly as terrible as the godless atheists, and thanks to Catholic schools, I definitely have some behaviors (like making the sign of the cross every time I see a fire truck or ambulance) that I can’t shake. I totally get the overarching idea that people who aren’t governed by their God are more likely to behave badly, but isn’t that basically saying that you believe that humans, when left to their own devices, are horrible people? Did Original Sin teach us nothing about blind trust? (Well, maybe the men didn’t learn much, but women have certainly been paying for it forever.) I personally don’t see myself as being an untrustworthy person, and that’s without a defined spiritual being keeping me on the straight and narrow with the threat of eternal damnation and the hellfires hanging over my head.

But regardless of the religion-induced distrust of the mysterious “other”, I’m seriously irked that feminists are outliers. What? Have we still not come to terms with the fact that each and every human being (biological sex markers be damned!) is an important part of our global community, so much so that we distrust people who believe in that kind of equality? I may not have the physical strength of ten God-fearing men, but I have characteristics and qualities that make me equally valuable and worthy of respect. Does that make me untrustworthy? Or just scary because I’m less obedient and therefore “unknown”?

Whatever, I guess the moral of today’s stat is never trust a feminist. Or a rapist. Or maybe, don’t trust someone who thinks that feminists are only slightly more trustworthy than rapists.

On Rape, Legitimately

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Earlier this week, Representative Todd Akin, a Republican from Missouri, was discussing his views on abortion when he said, “It seems to me, from what I understand from doctors, that’s [pregnancy from rape] really rare. If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down. But let’s assume that maybe that didn’t work or something: I think there should be some punishment, but the punishment ought to be of the rapist, and not attacking the child.”

Understandably, a bunch of people flipped out. We’re not talking “take shelter until this blows over” freak out, we’re talking intense, election losing freak out, and rightfully so.

Just for the record, the body does not have any “ways to try to shut that whole thing down.” What methods does Mr. Akin imagine the female body might have to avoid pregnancy? I’m curious. Click here for an article discussing the science behind rape and pregnancy. You’ll note that around 32,000 pregnancies occur as a result of rape each year.

So, realizing that this comment wasn’t just going to be hidden under the rug, Mr. Akin responded. From the New York Times:

Mr. Akin quickly backtracked from his taped comments, saying he “misspoke.”

“In reviewing my off-the-cuff remarks, it’s clear that I misspoke in this interview, and it does not reflect the deep empathy I hold for the thousands of women who are raped and abused every year,” Mr. Akin, who has a background in engineering and is a member of the House science committee, said in a statement. “I recognize that abortion, and particularly in the case of rape, is a very emotionally charged issue. But I believe deeply in the protection of all life, and I do not believe that harming another innocent victim is the right course of action.”

 

I highly doubt that’s going to make it any better, Mr. Akin.

As a country, we spend an awful lot of our time and energy discussing and fighting about abortion, but I’m not entirely sure that we spend enough time trying to understand abortion. If you’re feeling curious, why not go over here and check out some stats?

But let’s skip the abortion debate, because we’ll get trapped into that abyss of conversation and lose our way.

Let’s talk about rape.

I am guilty of spending a large part of my life believing that rape was just uncomfortable, like bad sex. I didn’t understand. I still don’t, since it’s not something I’ve experienced, but I have a much better idea now.

I knew about rape as a child because I spent so much time buried in magazines like Time, Newsweek, and Reader’s Digest. During the 90s, I feel like there were a lot of news stories focusing on rape – particularly during and after political conflicts and wars abroad. That, coupled with the whole Monica Lewinsky scandal, really cemented the idea of the vulnerability of women during times of war and the idea that rape is tied in with power and masculinity.

But my understanding of rape was still clinical and journalistic. It wasn’t until I was ten or eleven or twelve (somewhere in there), and received a book of murder mysteries for Christmas that I started to understand. In one of the stories, there was a rape and murder of a young girl. I won’t go into detail. It was graphic. It terrified me. I wrapped the book and hid it in the bottom of my desk drawer because every time I looked at it, I had nightmares. That was my first visceral reaction to the idea of rape.

Then came high school, followed by college. We were in a feminist class, I think, and the professor showed this scene from the movie A Time to Kill, which really put it in perspective for me. I don’t know why it was this that did it, or why it’s haunted me ever since, but in that moment, somewhere in a dark classroom, I felt my heart tear open and begin to ache as the understanding spread through my body to settle deep inside my mind.

Rape is not just bad sex. Rape is destructive, violent, painful, terrifying, and scarring. We as a society do so little to protect and comfort victims. You’ll notice that it’s comments like this one by Mr. Akin, or the one by the officer in Toronto who said that women should avoid dressing like sluts to avoid being raped, that really set us off. They’re the comments that create awareness, promote discussion, and prompt change.

But even so, the change comes too late for so many. The rapists take shelter in the gray areas of the law, and often walk away without having to face consequences due to lack of evidence, or a “he said, she said” argument. Rape is covered up, hidden, made a secret. The victims are left shattered and alone, abandoned by their peers due to lack of understanding and social stigmatization.

Instead of working to protect the result of rape, why are we not working to end rape? Why are we not trying harder to educate our children about the consequences of rape, about the actual definition of rape, about date rape, about assuring consent? Why are we not working to provide a save haven for victims? Why are we not working to end the shaming that we put on the shoulders of victims?

I was the result of a one-night stand. I could just as easily have been the result of a rape. Am I glad that I exist? Of course. But imagine what might have happened to my birth mother had she struggled to support herself and her child (baby me!). Where would we be now?

Something that these lawmakers (so often male) neglect in their utter dismissal of the magnitude of rape as a crime is also the magnitude of the aftermath. Personally, if I were to be raped and become pregnant, I would be furious if I were to be suddenly expected not only to carry that child to term, but then take on the financial burden of raising that child. Would I be able to be the best mother possible for that child? Would I be able to provide for us adequately? Would I need social services like welfare to help me?

Let’s not regress to where we’re arguing about what counts as “legitimate” rape. Let’s focus on eliminating rape. Let’s focus on providing services to the victims. Let’s move forward. Let’s provide choices and options, but most importantly, let’s remember that rape victims are so much more than their reproductive organs. They are people who deserve our respect, rather than our insistence that we not punish the child. (It’s an argument that gets made over and over again, along with “so and so was the result of rape, and look at them.”)

And for god’s sake, is this not THE prime example of why we need more science and sex education in schools?!

P.S. Check out these Onion articles. They’re sad, but pointed and definitely worth reading.

 

 

On the Weekend Adventure to the Grand Canyon, Impressively

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I didn’t think he was serious. I think we were watching Donnie Darko when it came up that I’ve never been to the Grand Canyon. “Let’s go,” he said. (For the record, they all say that. We make tentative plans and then we don’t go.)

Friday night, I left work, went to babysit, and then flew home to shower and pack. By 10pm, we were on the road, headed west. He drove until Vail – where we encountered the full force of the law, so I drove until Moab, where we switched again, and then I promptly fell asleep. When I woke up, it was 7am and we were somewhere in Arizona.

We got to the gates of the park at 8:30. After a quick change of clothes in the parking lot, we went. And for the first time, I saw the Grand Canyon. It was beautiful.

We climbed around on rocks. Neither of us had brought an insane amount of hiking gear, so we stayed near the top and just looked around. Wandered through some ruins. (Not really ruins, more like signs pointing out trees and what things might have been. Underwhelming.)

(We were staring into the sun. Terrible idea. Both of us are squinty and look miserable.)

By noon, the awe surrounding the immensity of the canyon was wearing off and the annoyance caused by fellow tourists was beginning to wear on us, so we decided to bail on the park (and the already purchased camping reservation I’d purchased).

We had lunch. (I’ve been eating salami, cheese, and bread for weeks on end and it still tastes just as good every time.) 

I asked that we find water, and he pointed to Lake Powell on the map. So off we went. Driving past the North Rim area of the Grand Canyon as you head toward Page, Arizona is like viewing the Wall in Game of Thrones. It’s amazing. It looms over everything.

We got into the park, wandered around looking for a spot to swim, and landed at a very sandy beach. We crossed a very nasty looking inlet and then hiked through some spiky bushes to an empty sandy beach area. It was empty, and so it became ours.

We decided to camp there, so we hiked back across the muck and got our stuff. And hiked back across the muck and back through the spiky bushes and down to our beach spot.

Swimming and a sunset walk rounded out our evening. We finished off the meat and cheese by the lake and fell asleep just after the sun went down. (I am a little bummed about that – I was looking forward to night swimming.)

I usually don’t fall asleep very well when I’m camping. I’m too jumpy and nervous. As 1:00 am rolled around and I was awake for the fourth time, I finally pulled out Mike’s sleeping bag and threw it over me. Snuggled into that, I fell asleep and stayed asleep. I woke up to an empty tent and a beautiful sunrise (ish).

Britt swam out to that giant rock you saw above, and I nearly had seven heart attacks once I stopped being able to see his head above the water. (I used to be a strong swimmer, but am really out of shape now and couldn’t have gotten out there even if I’d had to.) My consolation was a boat floating near the side of the big rock. In my mind, they’d give him a ride back, and that’s exactly what ended up happening. The boat came directly at me, someone yelled “Man overboard!” and he jumped to swim back to me. I waved, yelled, “Thank you!” and felt my heart start to beat again.

We packed up camp and headed home, but not before getting the car stuck in the deep sand and being towed out by a shirtless man with a cigarette dangling from his lips. “You kids have fun,” he said before climbing back into this truck and heading back to the beach. There was even a shower involved! It was outdoors with no warm water, but it may have been one of the best showers I’ve ever taken. I was so happy to stand in the spray and feel the soap slide down me and drain away into the sand.

The redness of the rock and the blue of the sky reminded me of our road trip through South Africa and made me miss the country. The Native American land that we drove through made my heart ache. Handwritten signs spelling out “Tire Shop” looked just like the ones in the South African townships. If you could replace the tract housing with metal sheets, it could have just as easily been Capricorn or Vryground. Even the roadside markets, with their handmade stalls and hand-painted signs were similar. I could sense the rawness of the whole thing, and I felt simultaneously moved and unmoved. It was interesting. It was the same mix of emotions I felt in Cape Town. Respect for the situation but understanding of the complexities that have made it so. Realization that there can be no swift change, and that the emotions that haunt those involved will not fade for generations to come, if at all.

I drove while he slept. I threw my phone on shuffle and listened to music and just let the road take me. I was happy. Once I started to ache, I pulled over, got food and gas, and then switched spots with him. I didn’t sleep on the way home – he’d brought me his Kindle to read since I mentioned that I wanted to read The Hunger Games. I got engrossed in the book while we still had daylight.

We landed in front of my apartment before 10. I hauled my stuff in and made noodles while Carlos yowled and rubbed against me, apparently surprised to see me return home. Instead of falling asleep immediately, I read a few more chapters of the book and then finally turned out my light.

The weekend was fun. I’m surprised that we traveled so well together and I genuinely enjoyed myself. I was stressed before we left because of my natural pre-trip stress and the fact that I felt like we weren’t communicating well, but as soon as we were on the road that all melted away. This continues to unfold in an interesting way, and I am quite curious to see where it leads.

On Kaiser, Defeatedly

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Updated February 24, 2016 — this post was written a long time ago. Since then, I’ve changed my viewpoint on Kaiser as a whole, and am actually a huge fan of their services. I ask that you read this post, of course, but also read my updated post — it’s after being a Kaiser member for 4 years, so it’s got a lot more wisdom in it, hopefully.

TL; DR: Adderall rant, Kaiser Permanente, ADHD.

You may know that I’m lucky enough to be on my mom’s health insurance (since I’m not yet 26). You may not know that we recently switched from a PPO to an HMO. We were hesitant to make the change, but we reviewed all of the coverage and pricing plans and realized that we would save several thousands of dollars over the course of the year by going with an HMO…Right now, I’m thinking that perhaps I’d be willing to sacrifice any amount of savings in favor of a PPO.

After getting a work review that involved a negative look at my lack of focus in mid-2011, I realized that it was finally time to address something I’d known about forever but had never really acknowledged. I went and spoke to my primary care provider about the possibility of having ADHD.

She was initially dismissive, as I expected her to be, and insisted that I get an official evaluation. Several hundreds of dollars later, I was fully evaluated for all learning disabilities and ADHD. The results were exactly as expected: zero learning disabilities (even the things I’m terrible at are well within the “average” to “above average” range, which soothes any fears of inadequacy but makes me wonder how bad everyone else could possibly be at math) coupled with hardcore ADHD. It’s surprising that I was able to get this far without serious complications – apparently, I’ve just developed a really functional network of coping mechanisms.

Post-diagnosis, we began to medicate. The first round was Ritalin, to which I reacted horribly. I still shudder to think about it. The next round was a more common medicine, to which I have adapted quite well, other than a few side effects such as forgetting to eat. My insurance company was hesitant to cover the drugs, and so for a few months, we paid out-of-pocket while working with the doctors and pharmacy and insurance company to get it all worked out. Ugh. After rejection after rejection, I was worn out, but we won a series of logistical battles and got my meds covered. (I left the most awkwardly grateful voice mail for my doctor’s assistant and her nurses – I was so happy.)

Finally, life was beautiful. I had my meds covered by insurance, I had a supportive team behind me that understood the situation, was monitoring my weight and vital signs, and was generally kicking ass at work as a direct result of my medication and other approaches to treatment. However, my room and car did not magically become cleaner. (In my mind, I thought I would turn into Monica from Friends and have to have everything neat and orderly. Obviously that’s not how it works.)

But the bottom line reared its ugly head and now I’m beginning yet another difficult round of obstacle hurdling, in the form of the looming giant Kaiser.

This morning, I met with one of their mental health drones, where I immediately handed her a full copy of my initial diagnosis and report, hoping to avoid having to go through the next hour and fifteen minutes. But alas, I was not so lucky, and instead, was subject to an interrogation of sorts.

This sounds silly, and is totally immature and the wrong way to approach these things, but I always panic. I know there’s an answer that they’re looking for, and I know that I need to display symptoms of ADHD without looking manic or insane. The psychologist who did  my initial evaluation made me feel so at ease about the whole process, so that it felt less accusatory and more geared toward me.

Instead, I found myself second-guessing each question, and trying to remember how I answered questions like “how many drinks do you have per week?” with their pharmacist during the initial call to establish health history and transfer of medications. (Oh yeah – there’s an initial call where they lecture you about deciding to have children. I think I got an over-eager pharmacist – his three-minute lecture on what to do if I decide to get pregnant was not only above the call of duty, it bordered on completely inappropriate. He’s lucky I was at work, or I would have torn into him about how offended I was. Instead, repeating “I am well aware” in an increasingly-icier tone had to suffice.)

The problem with this process is that I know it’s very necessary. I am well aware that ADHD medications are wildly abused and heavily regulated by the government. I get that doctors can get into trouble for over-prescribing and for lack of attention to detail.

However, I’m shocked because while I have such a hard time getting the medications that I have a demonstrated need for, I know personally or know of people who are prescribed any number of medications and who abuse them, distribute them, and otherwise misuse them. And the minute I go in with another issue, it’s medication, medication, medication. I don’t want to have to have a 7-day pill-box full of stuff. I don’t want a collection of uppers and downers and middlers. (Middlers aren’t a thing…yet.)

I really hate the fact that I immediately feel suspected of some wrongdoing. I hate that they assume that I’m going to use the medicine for an illegitimate purpose. No, I’m not going to snort it or sell it. Instead, I’m going to go to work every day, take my pills, and maintain a professional demeanor. Is that seriously so hard to imagine? Just because I’m young doesn’t mean that I’m trying to take advantage of the system. I’m sick and tired of feeling like a criminal just because I’m trying to get a prescription.

Ready for the cherry on top of the “Fuck you, HMO” sundae? I had to take a drug test to get a prescription for Adderall. I had to drive across town to pick up medicine that I was told wasn’t there when I went to pick up my other medicine two weeks ago – it was. And while I was there, I had to pee in a cup. A drug test? Are you kidding me?

I get that they want to make sure that I’m not abusing other drugs – I’m not – but at the same time, I’m a patient. I’m in their care. This is supposed to be a team effort to ensure my health and well-being. Instead, it seems like I’m being observed, held for the full 48 hours waiting for the indictment I know won’t come. I’ve never been drug tested before in my life. Not for any job. Not for any activity. Not for anything. And yet, to get a prescription for something that I’ve already been taking for 8 months, I have to go put my card in a box, push a doorbell, and wait to be handed a plastic cup,

In order to get the new prescription, not only do I have to pass the drug test, I also have to get an EKG at some point in the next few weeks. Do they think I have endless amounts of time to spend not working and getting tests run? Ridiculous. God, it’d probably be easier to buy my meds off some kid on the street.

The mental health drone was quick to assure me that segmented health care is great, once you get used to it, and that she’ll contact me via email but we most likely won’t meet for another year. I’m fine with that, but I guess there’s a disconnect for me between “be well” and the fact that I’m just a member number and a urine sample to them now. I’ll wait in their lines. I’ll wait for my name to flash on the board so I can go stand in another line. I’ll never see the same Kaiser employee twice. I’ll be stickers on a piece of paper. I’ll be copays. But I won’t be Katie Barry, the person. I won’t be Katie Barry, who has individual needs.  I’ll be that damn member number and nothing more.

I realize that this will pass and that my level of indignation is probably a little over-dramatic. But I don’t care. I feel like a head of cattle and I hate it. I’ve always been a little bit on the sensitive side, afraid to get into trouble, and feeling so scrutinized, like I’ve just been called into the principal’s office, for something I can’t help is more than just a bit disconcerting to me. I imagine that as we continue with this journey, I’ll get more comfortable with the system, but for now, I’m annoyed, overwhelmed, and seriously not happy with my providers or the level of care I’m receiving.

On New Opportunities, Sadly, Fondly, Excitedly

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This post is a love letter to one of my best friends, who’s off to intern abroad for the next six months. I hope she has an absolute blast perfecting her Italian while eating gelato and canolis and kicking ass at what she’s doing.

I’ve known her since I was fourteen. We got close during geometry class our sophomore year – we were absolute hellions to our teacher – and then traveled to Europe together on an amazing forensic science trip between our junior and senior years of high school.

We went to Chicago together our senior year. She was visiting her boyfriend, and I was falling in love with the lake. We ended up going to the same university. Even though we’ve had very different life experiences, we’ve been able to maintain and strengthen our friendship through the years.

Honestly, some of my best memories from college are from my senior year. The Irish, the Ginger Summer (parts one and two), bar trivia, adventuring, accidentally driving to Wisconsin, the Boston trip, the last night and the sunrise that wasn’t – those are the moments that shape the beautiful memories of my time in Chicago.

I have come to rely on Madeline for advice, for adventure, for a good laugh. Sometimes when I’m really stressed out, she’ll appear in my dreams and yell at me, so I’m pretty certain that she’s my super ego. She is the logical half of our duo, the rational one who always has the right answer. I respect and value her opinions at all times, and have looked to her as a source of strength when I need it most.

I’m so lucky to have a friend like her.

There was a flaming bowl of rum punch involved. That may explain why the picture is so off kilter.

San Francisco, summer 2010, singing “Wonderboy” at a karaoke bar. Are we awesome at karaoke? Absolutely not. Did we rock? Of course.Wonderboy, what is the secret of your power?

The Chicago Mustache Bash:

Spray painting the Irish’s van. Sally, as the van was called, had no working speedometer or gas gauge. The Irish had gotten her for $400 and paid a guy in beer to fix her when she broke.

The first night we went out with our new Irish trivia buddies, they picked us up in the van. I was certain we were going to die when they opened the sliding door while we were on Lake Shore Drive and yelled “air conditioning!”

(The Irish got stopped trying to get back into the US from Canada because they had spray painted “We’re here illegally” on the side of the van.)

South Boston, 2010. A trivia adventure.

Downtown Chicago, 2009. Maddie’s family was in town. Things got wild. This is my favorite picture of us. 

On Parking Tickets, Sadly

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I just hate seeing the little yellow envelope neatly tucked into my door, or placed underneath my front window wiper. (Last week, it was dark, and I thought it was just a club advertisement, so I didn’t do anything about it until I got home. Thankfully it didn’t blow away.) My blood boils. My heart begins to tighten in my chest. My eyes narrow. My lips set into a thin line.

I just hate seeing the subject line: “City of Denver online ticket payment confirmation.” My blood boils. My heart begins to tighten in my chest. My eyes narrow. My lips set into a thin line. I highlight the message and file it under “Receipts” in my gmail folder, and then I sigh and try to soothe my bruised soul and bank account.

Stupid parking tickets. I haven’t gotten one since May – Google informed me that I haven’t visited the “pay your parking tickets online” page since May 21. I thought I was killing it this summer. Apparently, I was/am not.

It’s also split street sweeping this week, so I’m worried that I’m going to fail at something. Dodging the 2nd Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday of the month gets difficult when the month starts on a Wednesday. This week, I’m tasked with avoiding one side today (great success!) and another tomorrow, and then next Tuesday, I’ll have to do the same. I think that if I were mayor (or even just more motivated), I’d propose legislation regulating street sweeping so that it would be set days (1st, 2nd, and 3rd of the month, for example) rather than second Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, etc.

However, I’m sure the constant Katie Barry revenue stream fills the hearts of the city government employees with pure glee, and who am I to deny them that pleasure?