Category Archives: anger

Friday Drivel, Nonchalantly

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Work this week was wild. Every now and then, one of our consultants who works remotely flies in and we have company meetings. Even though I’m in a department all by myself (which is the best and worst thing ever), I still find myself distracted and unproductive during these weeks, regardless of whether I’m attending every single meeting or not. Now that it’s Friday, I’m finding myself able to settle down and focus on setting my schedule for the week ahead.

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In Kaiser-related news: I passed my drug test with an A (for amphetamines, which we entirely anticipated since I take them most days. I had a good shock when I saw that on the results list, but quickly realized that it meant Adderall and stopped wondering where I might have accidentally come into contact with meth or something related).This is the best news. (Not that I was worried.)

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I have been trying to curb my internet shopping habit. Having to slowly purchase a new wardrobe is so much easier when it can just come to your office, but it’s also expensive and annoying as all hell when you have to return something. But when I saw boots on sale on one of my web sites, I had to buy them.

Every year, I try to buy a pair of boots that I like. Every single year, I go for black riding boots. Every single year, I am disappointed. Last year, I bought a pair to try at Target and ended up wearing them all year. The only problem? They didn’t last and I won’t be able to stretch their life through this winter. So after Christmas, I treated myself to a pair of wonderful boots. They arrived, via mail, at which point I discovered that they looked worse than the Target boots, so they were sent back.

I got the new boots today. I get so excited to get mail, particularly when it’s a package. I tore it open, and tried them on. And they did exactly what I knew they’d do: they gaped around my calves. Gaped. They looked like rain boots, which I hate more than any other kind of boots for the simple reason that they’re just so large. The boots have been returned to their packaging and will find themselves back in the mail tomorrow. I’m dejected, but determined. There must be a pair of tall black boots that isn’t going to cost me tons of money that will fit my calves (or at least not swallow them into a dark abyss). I will find it, although I’m starting to give up hope that I’ll ever find a pair of black riding boots with a small enough calf circumference to suit my chicken calves. Instead, I might go nuts and get some Doc Martens, something I’ve wanted since I was like 13.

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I wore a white shirt to work today, which means that within five minutes of making coffee (I can make coffee now! I realize that seems stupid, but I learned this week and I’m incredibly proud of this), I had a coffee stain on my shirt. Of course.

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I pride myself on being very even keel. I’m not usually girlish or overly emotional (although lately, I’ve been questioning whether or not this is true. Last night, I cried at the end of one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen.) I’m usually pretty consistent when it comes to assessing my own emotional needs and doing what I need to do to ensure my own happiness and well-being.

But I’ve been uncharacteristically moody this week. I should have realized what was happening since my skin started to get grumpy, but I was hit with an assault of hormones that threw me into an irrationally angry and pathetic state. Like, “WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME?” needy, which is a very rough place to be, especially when that’s the last place you want to find yourself.

Trying to explain to Britt why I need to be reassured and snuggled was like trying to speak Esperanto to deaf penguins in Antarctica. It went like this:

“Since we started hanging out, you haven’t once told me that you care. I realize that even if you said it now, it’d be under duress, but I just need some reassurance from time to time that you don’t hate this.”

He laughed. “I spend time with you! I see you all the time! Do you think I’m a masochist who would spend so much time hanging out with someone I hated?”

“I just need some reassurance sometimes. You’re always so sarcastic about everything.”

“So if I don’t ever see you but tell you that you’re pretty and that I like you, that’ll be enough?”

“NO!”

“That’s exactly what you just said you wanted.”

Men are very frustrating creatures, particularly when they don’t speak your love language. Especially when they aren’t aware of the concept of love languages. I think everyone should have to grow up with sisters, so they’re prepared to enter adulthood with a good idea of how things work.

I was complaining to Mike last night (while he was kind enough to make me a turkey and avocado panini on his beloved panini maker), and he said, “You always jump into things without realizing what you’re getting yourself into.” He’s not wrong, but I’m too stubborn to give up until it’s beyond saving. Based on my pushing and his non-response, it may be sooner rather than later. Ah, well, such is life.

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If you’re a pet owner, you will love (or at least appreciate) these two sites:

Dog Shaming | Cat Shaming

The beast would get a shaming picture because when we play, he loves to attack my hands instead of his toy. Or because he always runs into our Saw basement (think of the movie Saw. Then you’ll know what our basement looks like. Dark and full of crazy rooms and clutter.) the minute I open the door and has to be coaxed out by shaking a bag of wet food. Or for once attacking a dog.

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Happy Friday!

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 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 Humanity, Realistically

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I am not fun to watch movies or shows with. My friend Anne will tell you that I begin asking questions immediately and don’t stop. It’s as though I can’t just wait and see. (I can’t. I read the last page of romance novels before I read them even though I know exactly what’s going to happen from the outset.)

I got the new boy started on Game of Thrones this weekend. I am hooked. I love the intrigue, the strategy, the double-crossing, the cliff-hangers. (Just kidding, there’s nothing worse than an episode fading to black just as something critical happens.) I watched the first few episodes with him, and told him to stop where I’d left off. We resumed last night, I slept through the second episode of the second season, and then, revived by my late evening nap, stayed awake through another two.

The show is sort of medieval fantasy, so it’s far removed from our present reality. But it’s a   story that is beautifully applicable to our current times (as history and epics so often are). At one point, there are a bunch of prisoners in a terrible situation (when are a “bunch of prisoners” not in a terrible situation?). Daily, one of them is chosen and then tortured and killed.

I find myself blanching at the thought. Somewhere deep inside me begins to feel pain, a singular discomfort. It’s the same reason I can’t watch the Saw movies, the same reason I had to hide the book of 100 Little Murder Stories (or something similarly titled) that I was gifted during my youth, the same reason I will never forget the episode of Law and Order: SVU where the transgendered inmate is brutally beaten and nearly killed: I can’t stomach the thought of a human being doing terrible things to other human beings, for any reason at all.

The idea of murder is so romanticized, our glorification of violence so tolerated and accepted, so expected. James Bond does it so well, he does it for a noble cause, he kills those who “deserve” it. There is something heroic about the whole affair, something so clean and cold and detached that you sympathize with the killer and champion his efforts.

For me, it’s not the just murders that offend me, it’s the sadistic that stuns me. The fact that human beings, for one reason or another, are so able to cause pain and misery, inflicting cruel punishment for little or no reason at all. I can’t imagine what would possess someone to derive pleasure from those actions.

I look at the warning signs: people abusing animals, etc. I look at the black cats that fill our shelters. I look at my own black cat, who was feral until someone decided he’d be an excellent house cat. I think about someone hurting him. (I think about the sad yowl he let out when I accidentally cut his nail too short – the yowl that haunts me and makes me feel terrible.) I can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine it for even a single moment.

I think of our disregard for life. It’s a societal epidemic, our lack of respect for others. I am guilty of the same, Chicago-me flipping off cab drivers that zig and zag through the crowded intersections. In those moments, those cab drivers aren’t people. They’re terrible caricatures in cabs, determined to destroy my commute.

Is that how it begins? I wonder. (Obviously it’s not.) But at what point does the casual disregard turn into something more sinister? Is this the ignition point? The gateway? (Again, it’s not.) But as we move toward a more individualistic society, forgoing the “it takes a village” mentality for the “do it yourself, crush all others” mindset, are we losing a vital piece of our humanity? Are we losing shared experiences, community, and ultimately, the true value of this life?

We can study the causality all we like. At the conclusion of our studies, our research, our newly enacted laws attempting to restrict and mitigate their movements, we will still find that people – human in constitution just like ourselves – will go to great lengths to hurt and injure and ruin other people. We cannot stop this.

It will continue in perpetuity. It breaks my heart. It hurts my soul.

I’ve been enjoying the different perspective that the boy (I can hardly bring myself to say his name, I’m so excited about this and I’m terrified to do anything that could potentially destroy it….like getting a lover’s name tattooed right across your chest only to go home and find that they’re leaving you for someone else) brings to my understanding of life as I know it. I’m finding that even though he’s fairly conservative, we have a lot of shared views.  We’ve been able to discuss politics without our conversations falling into the traditional tropes that seem to define oppositional discussions. He’ll call me a hippie and I’ll call him a gun-owner and we’ll kiss and continue our conversation. (I guess that is exactly the traditional trope you’d expect…) He’s logical and rational, and I am thrilled by the opportunity to pick his brain and ask endless amounts of questions. I’m thrilled by his responses. I’m open to his ideas and experiences. I see what he knows as an area that I’m lacking in, and I’m determined to understand his mindset and his opinions.

I watch him play video games. (I am an amazing not-yet-girlfriend, if I must say so myself.) I do the same gasping and squeaking, nervous for him as I watch his character fight off strange post-apocalyptic demon-creature-things, and I watch as their bodies disintegrate into nothingness, leaving weapons and money and health for his character to pick up. I champion his efforts, and yet, I’m left wondering about the disconnect between this pixelated violence and the violence on a global scale.

Are we hurting our young people by allowing them to perceive these kills so coldly? The real effects of death and war and bloodshed are far greater than these valiant missions in video games. I’m not anti-video game, not by any means; I’m not saying that they are THE social ill, but I am saying that I think they are symptomatic of our cultural neglect of the soul.

They’re just as bad as my willingness to cut off a cab driver who’s trying to squeeze into my lane. They’re just as bad as our neglect of shelter animals, our blind-eyes turned away from the neighbors who punish their children too harshly, our blanket declarations of individualism – the glorification of the “self-made man” in a world that no longer allows for the opportunity of the American dream nor respects the contributions of the global workforce.

Life is everything you’d imagine it to be. Life is personality, drive, hopes, dreams, fears, goals. Of course there’s no way to identify with everyone, but in trying to truly  understand people, there is so much to be learned.

How can personal, societal, national growth happen unless there is learning, understanding, community? Every body breathes. Every body desires, wants, needs. It’d be good to remind everyone of that simple fact, especially as the body counts continue to rise worldwide – from all sorts of crime and conflict – and the world continues to struggle between turning a blind eye and striving for peaceful solutions for all. It is far more difficult to work for love and understanding, but I feel that the benefits would far outweigh the alternative.

On Being a Twenty-Something, Defensively

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I’ve had a blog since I was fifteen. I wrote posts on MySpace, I posted to (and obsessed over) my LiveJournal account, and finally, when I went away to college, I got a Blogspot to document adventures for my family. Three (give or take a few) iterations later, you have the present form of the same thing: a place on the internet to write about my life.

There is something so entirely humbling about reading back to a post that I wrote when I was little.

Stuff like:

“I stood there, in the company of many, but I knew so few.”

and

“I smiled, trying not to make eye contact. I’m sure my dejected look detracted from my approachability.”

or

“The drive home, in the cool night air, windows down, music up, was immense. No other cars on the road, just me and the night, speeding slowly home. I set the cruise control, just for fun, so that I could just be in the night. I was sixteen again, fresh with ideas, taking the turn to the song, letting the music take me elsewhere.
The lights in Denver have begun their countdown, a simple way of informing pedestrians of their impending restriction, and at night, the countdown simply hits zero and reverts back to the little light man walking. I found myself timing it so that as I drove, I’d be crossing the intersection as the change occurred, the ultimate end leading back to the same beginning.
There is nothing better than the promise of summer, no matter what life is holding for you at the moment, standing outside in the night and smelling the air will change your life. Floral scents intermingle with the city’s hot fresh air and the animals of the night seem to be more alive.
We saw a skunk mosey past, on his way somewhere fast. As I drove away into the night, rolling down the windows, I passed the skunk again, still running, still on the street, getting somewhere.
We’re all getting somewhere, even if we have no idea where we are.”

These posts become a place for me to mark my growth. They remind me that I’ve always been some things, and they reinforce that I’ve always been others. Sometimes I am struck by how insightful Past-Me is, and others, I cringe at her insecurity and wish her all the self-assurance in the world.

I’ve been reading posts about my generation. We’re the Millenials, the ones who are supported by their parents, who have no work ethic, who are vapid and shallow and marked by their sense of entitlement. All of those authors are so wrong.

Yes, we’re wallowing, wandering, lost, and afraid. (And yes, some of us are total dicks. But your generation had some not-so-pleasant people in it too, admit it.) What we were raised to see as our future is crumbling in front of us, as though arriving at the desert mirage to find more and more of same, too-hot sand. We’re thirsty. As I’ve said before, we’re the Next Lost Generation. We have no idea what to expect, because the expectations change daily.

Struggling to find the balance between youth and maturity is a difficult one, particularly when any move toward “grown-up” is criticized, and movements to remain “youthful” are equally stigmatized by both my peers and my age-superiors. What I find interesting is that many of these authors criticizing the Millenials are Millenials themselves.

I work three jobs and don’t get financial support (except health insurance premium – Mom, you’re the best), and I make it work. I have work ethic, drive, desire, and passion to create a sustainable and secure future for myself. I happen to enjoy a few gin & tonics and some dancing. So be it. Yeah, I get frustrated at my peers. I find people with no drive infuriating and weak. I am prone to the occasional meltdown of desperate wallowing.

But I’m also not wallowing for the sake of wallowing. This life is a journey. Right now, the age-superiors are controlling a large stake of this world that we live in. It’s hard to get past the entry-level job, it’s hard to ascertain whether or not our place is as adult-equal or child-mentee. It’s difficult. It’s like being seventeen again, being all lost and insecure and afraid.

The reason that there are so many twenty-somethings actively writing about their lives is because they’re finding an outlet.The internet has opened lines of communication that hardly existed twenty years ago, and has fostered equal parts community and isolation by “social networks.” Growing up with access to technology will change – has already changed – a lot of the ways that people example typical milestones. There’s a lot more comparison, more evaluation, but also less of each.

Pressure on young adults to be “perfect” is a very real thing. They want to succeed, and want to be able to do that, but are often so coddled and cared for that they lack the tools with which to do so. Or, alternately, they want to succeed but instead of being coddled and cared for, they’re tough enough to make it on their own but are constantly fighting external circumstances. It’s life, just like you lived it, just like your kids will live it. It’s just always a bit different.

Yeah, some of those blogs are insipid as all hell. Some are lame. Others are personal. Each blog inhabits its own space. It is exactly what it is. And I’ll tell you something that I always tell people: If you don’t like it, don’t read it.  (For those of you who think the Millenials are strange, you should delve into the world of middle-aged bloggers, some who are fascinating, wonderful creatures and others who are like reading something reminiscent of listening to nails along a mile-long chalkboard. The grass is always greener, dear Baby Boomers.)

My blog marks my growth from adolescent to young adult and beyond. I’m humbled by, grateful for, astonished by, embarrassed about, aware of, and immensely proud of everything, even the parts I hate. This blog, while both public-facing and well-trafficked, is an account of growth and the stages that mark a life. My life. It is meant to be self-pitying and triumphant in equal measures.

When I look back on my posts, I am able to mark the moments at which I grew and changed. I am able to see how my opinions and tastes have changed and grown. And I am  content to see how the journey has progressed thus far, and excited about the glorious future that awaits.

So, remember: If you don’t like it, don’t read it. Problem solved.

On Breakfast in Bed and Bitches, Pragmatically

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I changed my mind about the potential chauvinism deal. I mean, I didn’t change my mind, exactly.

You’ll get your chance to explain where you’re coming from. You will bring over brownie mix, and he’ll make brownies. You’ll watch movies, ones that you haven’t seen but that he thinks you’ll like. He’ll be right. You won’t sleep because you will be too excited. You will talk about everything. You will tease each other. You will make plans. You will talk politics and find some common ground. You will fall asleep and when you open your eyes, he will be walking through the door with the bacon and eggs that he woke up early to make just for you. You will be so happy. You will do the dishes as quietly as you can, since he’s asleep. You think feminist thoughts while you’re doing the dishes. You will leave him cherries in a bowl in the fridge. You will awkwardly say hello to his landlady on the way out, then panic and wonder if you should have made better conversation than “Hi!” as you shut the door.

***

I have been working at the same office building for a year and a half. I have never had an assigned parking spot, but every day, I park in the same spot. For the past week or so, I’ve been noticing that if I don’t get to the office early enough (ha, my definition of early is much different from yours, I’ll imagine), someone will be in “my” spot.

So yesterday, I had to park in a different spot. Our parking system is totally unintelligible and strange, so when you see a spot that has no number painted into the concrete at its opening, you assume that it’s free. So I parked in one.

I went to my car after work to see a note. “THIS IS A RESERVED PARKING SPACE.” Pssh, like hell it is. So I texted my boss and told him that it is probably time to see about getting me a real parking spot. My lovely lady boss went down to greet the very scary building secretary today, and was met with resistance. Lots of resistance.

And, to top off that resistance, the scary building secretary said something to my lady boss about how she recognized my license plate and also the fact that my car had duct tape on it. What exactly does that have to do with anything?

My car took a beating in Chicago. I was the hit part of a hit-and-run, leaving a giant jagged wound in my back bumper. My windows were spray painted. (For like a month, I had to roll down my window to turn left because the word “PAIN” was in my way. I eventually paid a guy $8 to razor-blade the paint off.) My front side bumper was hit. I was driving along a narrow street and a man opened his door, shattering my side-view mirror.

All of these things are parts of Chicago that I will carry with me until my car dies, because even though I pay Allstate a significant amount of money each month in “full-coverage” insurance and have never been in an accident that they had to pay any money for, it’s going to cost me my full deductible to fix each individual incident of damage, which at current count is 2 new bumpers and whatever else they decide that they’ll need. Duct tape, on the other hand, is $4/roll, and every time I buy it, my insurance doesn’t go up.

With the transmission starting to get janky – through no fault of my own, it’s a 3rd gear pressure switch thing, whatever that means – I’m making important decisions and stocking away money to fix that when it goes rather than keeping up with your needless aesthetic expectations.

So, scary building secretary, the reason that my car looks like it belongs to an undesirable is merely because of the financial advantages to not fixing my car (plus, no one wants to steal a car that’s not worth chopping up and selling). Don’t think that I haven’t looked into it, because I have. Stop judging people for what their cars look like. The quality of their hearts and souls is of far greater importance.

The conclusion here? I now have an assigned parking spot. I am annoyed about it. But…the parking spot coupled with my brand new dual monitors (46 inches of computer screen!) means that I am having a great week. I am so blessed to work where I do. I am so grateful. Currently bitchy, but so incredibly happy.

On the Supreme Court and Socialism, Quite Happily

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I heard the news about the Supreme Court’s ruling on health care in the car on the way to work this morning. I am thrilled. We are one step closer to joining the ranks of the countries that have affordable health care. Now, if only we could get rid of that pesky “for profit” part…

The cries of socialism are ringing, though. On my way into my office building, a co-worker told me that one of the guys who eats breakfast was ranting about how we’re turning into a nation of socialists.

Hardly.

But it got me thinking about people, specifically. Our democratic model is supposed to allow for involvement by all citizens. Of course, the better educated and motivated the citizens are, the better the democracy, which in theory will work in the best interests of its people.

There was a man standing on the corner on my way to work. He caught my eye because his Hawaiian shirt did not match his checkered shorts. He was holding a sign that said, “Honest work for honest pay.” It also listed his phone number.

There’s another man, wearing some sort of identification badge (as a way to legitimize his request) who stands on the corner where I turn onto the main thoroughfare as I leave work. He’s there every day, even in the hot sun, and his sign says that he’s an Army veteran and a father of four, willing to work.

When I was a child, the signs read, “Anything helps,” or “I’m not going to lie, I need a beer,” and while I don’t mean to make light of the homeless epidemic that has been a problem for longer than I’ve been alive, which is entirely related to our own lack of mental health care -particularly for our veterans – and other necessary services, I find the fact that the signs’ messages have changed to be an indicator of a far deeper problem.

Who are we as a society to put profit before people? Have we forgotten about the “general welfare“?

When a baby is born, it is a helpless individual in need of constant attention. While most of these babies grow up to be adults, the paths that they take (both willfully and unwillingly) are greatly divergent from their shared beginnings as infants in need of clean diapers, a warm bed, and food.

Somewhere along the way, some of these people seem to have forgotten that our fragile existence is dependent upon reliance on others. Reliance on others sounds like hippie nonsense, but it’s not. Every individual possesses unique strengths that serve as an asset to the communities in which they live. A community that is able to utilize these assets in the best manner possible has far greater strength and is a far more vibrant place to be.

People are quick to make assumptions when they see someone standing on a street corner holding a sign that begs for work. I urge you to imagine how you would come to that decision. It’s not a dignified action, the begging, and people know that. They have weighed their options and come up with nothing, and so, standing on the corner with a sign is their last attempt.

Say what you will about people who receive assistance from the government (and in doing so, I urge you to consider the bailouts of banks and large corporations as something similar, just for perspective), but at the core of everything lies the concept of humanity. If we desire to create a society driven by the pursuit of sustainability and progress, we must remember that each and every citizen matters, regardless of their ability to accumulate wealth or their social standing.

In our rush to actualize the American dream, we started valuing white collar jobs, and in doing so, began to devalue labor. Human labor is a necessary force for sustained growth and the success of a nation. People want to work. They want to feel as though their work matters.

Business can be successful when people matter, but the desire to drive the profit margin ever higher must cease. I work for a company that proves that human is more important than anything else. We have been providing software for decades (longer than I’ve been alive), and have maintained and grown the business without sacrificing the integrity of the people who work here. My boss always says, “We are not what we do,” and he lives by that. He once had to get up in the middle of a very important demonstration of our product to go attend to his family, and he did so without hesitation. I respect that.We work together, as a community. We share ideas, inspirations, and celebrate the good news. We are a support network during times of grief and sadness. This is a unique kind of company, and I’m glad I work here.

I’m arguing for or against socialism, but I’m arguing that as a country, we’ve begun to neglect of the most important facets of our society: our people.

The United States is no longer the greatest nation in the world. What we lack in education, human services (including health care), and global respect, we make up for in incarceration rates, defense spending, and bravado. In order to keep ourselves relevant on the world stage, we must learn to compromise between the corporation and the individual. We are a government “by the people, for the people,” and it’s time that we started remembering that.

 

On the Weekend

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Kids Crafts

I love babysitting. Now that I’m out of college and staring down the possibility of motherhood within the next decade or so, I am looking at babysitting as the ultimate in childhood education. It provides such an insight into the world of parenting. I get to see the kids at their shiny, smiling best and at their absolute, angry worst. I get to watch their minds develop and wonder; they blow me kisses and sign “I love you” when I put them to sleep; we giggle together. Children are truly wondrous.

But more than that, I get to watch different sets of parents actively making choices. Each household does things differently, and all they want is the best for their children. I’m terrified that I will somehow raise children that aren’t independent, free-thinking, and respectful. (See this article in the New Yorker for more on that…)

It’s good practice. It’s good exposure. And I honestly think that for all of my years spent babysitting, I’ll be a much better mother.

Kiddie Pool

Denver has been HOT. Too hot. Whenever the summer gets like this, I always think of that episode of Hey, Arnold! where there’s the heat wave. Don’t ask why, I’m not even entirely sure what happens in the episode.

My apartment does not have air conditioning. The cat is angry about this, and is grateful for the fans we have set up in an attempt to circulate some of the air. So on Saturday, we bought a kiddie pool, some squirt guns, sunscreen, and a plastic jar with a spout and a handle! It’s the perfect combination for summer. Swisher has informed me that now that we own a hose together, we’re pretty much committed to each other.

After the stress that was our first fight last week, I had some more serious realizations: On Saturday, he helped me clean out my room at my mom’s house – she’s trying to reclaim our childhood rooms and I’m resisting. But there was no judgement as he picked through random piles of books and clothes and the knick knacks of my youth. I realized that even though there are things that I’m going to have to accept and learn to love about him, he’s having to do the same thing for me. Helping me clean is always going to be a labor of love (Maddie knows all about this), and one that I will be forever grateful for.

I’m going to try to be more patient and realistic in my expectations, but I also told him that I’m not going to let him slide on anything. I think it was good. Cooling off in the pool was even better. I can’t wait to spend the summer hanging out at the pool I’ve inflated in the empty lot next to my apartment building. (Hah.)

Sky clouds plane

The view from the pool.

City park jazz

On Sunday nights, they do free jazz concerts in City Park. Since it’s within walking distance, last night we made a little picnic of lemonade, bread, cheese, meat, and grapes and headed over with some blankets. It was a lovely evening of lounging on the blankets in the cooling air.

City Park Jazz Denver

(Swisher took this!)

Sadly, as the jazz was ending around 8pm, a police officer (and single mother of a 12-year old daughter) was shot and killed. We heard the gunshots, thought they sounded like fireworks, and then heard the sirens. Cop cars and an ambulance were all over the park. We weren’t very close to the shooting, and we didn’t really feel any sense of panic (I mean, it wasn’t the stampede-effect), but the stream of people out of the park was pretty consistent.

I seriously hope that this crime doesn’t deter people from coming out to the park. It’s such a beautiful place, and having free music every Sunday is a really great opportunity to feel like a part of the community. Maybe next week, they will have some sort of donation center up so that patrons can donate to the family of the slain officer.

I’m sad. Sad for the daughter of the officer, sad for the officer herself, and sad for the guy who killed her. Misplaced rage, or sad displays of masculinity, or something else led to a split-second decision that took a life, took a mother, and changed another’s life forever. This guy, who’s only 21, will have to spend the rest of his life reliving those moments. I only hope that prison for him is not so much a place of criminal education, but instead offers a place of hope and personal growth. (It won’t, but then again, our prison system has never really been about reducing recidivism. It’s more of a profit mill than anything else. I like hearing about places that really work for rehabilitation and optimism than those which breed gang violence and racially divided populations while glorifying violence.)

Night fisbee

When we got home, there were a ton of people in our living room. By a ton, I mean ten, but expecting to see one and seeing ten is still overwhelming. After a while, Mike’s friends wanted to take a walk. Which was perfect, because I wanted to play night frisbee.

Night frisbee has been on my brain for days now. It’s harder, I think, to play night frisbee because all you see is the light, flying straight at your head. The color is nice, but it’s easier to miss. I’m still awesome at it, of course.

After everyone left, Mike, Swisher, and I continued playing on the side of the building. It was such a relaxing night, the perfect end to a very hectic week. (Or the perfect beginning to another hectic week?)

In unrelated news, I love my slapwatch. I do not actually use it to keep time, and so I don’t think it’s been accurate for like six months. (Bear in mind that I’ve only owned it for like 6 months.) Also, my childhood self cheers every time I wear it. Good for her.

On the Verge, Intently

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This week has been one of those painful weeks where growth and realization have come quickly, but at a price. The week broke right into a bubble that was threatening to make me seriously happy, or at the very least content. It’s good to be reminded that these bouts of confidence and satisfaction are merely semi-permanent. Keeps me on my toes.

“Your social life has gone downhill. You’re lower on my totem pole,” he said over dinner. And inside, I ached.

“We’re enigmas,” she tells me, and I know she’s right. “Most 24 year olds aren’t as concerned about jobs and careers and futures.” (Arguably, I’m over-concerned.)

I bear a bit of resentment towards my peers who seem to be so carefree (careless?) with their time, their motivation, their agendas.

I got upset with him today. The realizations came swiftly and unbidden, settling around my heart like ice. I fear I’ve made a huge mistake. I grew upset and let it spill out today, a fury that had been brewing for four days. I questioned his motivations and tried to gently remind him that if what he’s doing now is overwhelming, then the real world is going to be a shock. There are no breaks. It wasn’t fun, and at the end of it, I don’t feel any better.

“They don’t ever change.” She told me this nearly a year ago, as I stood annoyed in the kitchen at work. And again, I hear her words echoing through my head. I wanted so badly to believe that those nine months gave him time to grow. I let myself believe and now, I’m trapped in something that might not be right, fearing that I could be sabotaging it myself or that I could be absolutely correct.

I’m trying to remind myself that the artificial idea of “success” isn’t important. But then I see her, struggling to feed her family because her lousy husband won’t work. The fear returns. Motivation. Work ethic. Drive. Those things matter. For me, it’s not so much money or status as it is the ability to continually plod along with a set of goals in mind.

As I grow into the person I will become, I am reminded often that nothing is certain. I am reminded that everything you know is not enough. Respect might not be enough, but it’s certainly incredibly important.

I’m working on my patience, too.

To quote the poignant words of a fictional twenty-something, “Your dreams are not what you thought they’d be.”

Baby steps.

On Lawnmower People, Begrudgingly

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I got a picture message from my mom a few minutes ago with the subject: “Found this note in a box. Made me laugh.”

I needed the smile today. But oh man, I am so embarrassed. That’s absolutely the handwriting and indignant sarcasm of my childhood.

(Okay, so it could be worse. I did say please. Check this link out, it goes to a drawing done by a 6-year old in timeout. He asks his parents how they’re doing in hell. Hah, so good.)