Category Archives: stress

On Douchebags, Finally

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As it turns out, I was not wrong.

The simple truth of the matter is that I have terrible taste in men. It’s cliché, but I look for love in all the wrong places. The good news is that I’m getting a lot better at advocating for myself in situations that I know aren’t right.

Emotional abuse is the kind of abuse that’s not talked about as much as the other kinds. It’s harder to see, and therefore harder to hate. Even though it will never leave visible bruises, marks, or scars, emotional abuse still has the power to do significant damage.

In July, I posted about dating someone who may or may not be a male chauvinist. (Answer: was. is. always will be.) That should have been the only red flag I needed, but stubbornly I took it as a challenge. I should have heeded the early warning signs rather than blatantly disregarding them.

I was starting to feel neglected, devalued, ignored. His sarcasm was one thing. His constant comments about how inferior women (and me) are were another. His emotional unavailability and unwillingness to engage in serious discussion was yet another. His lack of respect for and interest in my life.  His disrespect, his inability to engage, his repeated insistence that I’m stupid and incapable.  These began to pile up, past the point of his “I’m only joking!” explanations. When I stood up angrily the other day and asked him why he’s never told me that he cares for me, he brushed me off. My blood boiled.

The death knell of our relationship sounded when he told me that I would probably enjoy being raped, among other crude things.

I gathered my things from his apartment yesterday – with his permission, although he was away – and haven’t heard from him since. I imagine he knows that it is finished because my pillows are gone, the refrigerator no longer has my kalamata olives or my veggie sausages in it, and his Kindle has been placed on his table, only 43% of the last book of the Hunger Games trilogy finished. I left my wine, all the shampoo, my favorite t-shirt, because I didn’t have enough arms to carry it all and I couldn’t find my shirt and I just wanted to be gone.

I thought it might be better this way, leaving it all unsaid, because I know he’d never let me say it anyway. I tried this week, and was rewarded with silence. Better to bail than to try to make them see reason. I think I’ll miss his friends more than him.

The next time you judge anyone for getting into something quickly and getting out of it just as quickly, you might want to pause for a moment and consider the alternatives. I’m counting myself lucky and grateful that I’m better at recognizing the signs than I was at fifteen. I’m also overjoyed that I recognize my need to be respected, cherished, and appreciated.

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 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?

On Almost, Miserably

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Clouds over Denver International Airport at Sunset

(That’s what half-relief looks like.)

It’s a touch melodramatic, but whatever.

No one wants to fail. Or even come close to almost failing. But brushing the sharp edge of great accomplishment and even greater ruin is something that must be done. It builds character.

This particular task was a big project at work. We didn’t have to do it, but I pushed. I wanted to prove that it could be done. And we almost had it. I was there. I spent my Friday night typing answers into spreadsheets (damn you, spreadsheets!). I emailed updates to my team, as we had previously discussed, so that everyone would be on the same page. I was ready. I sat down this morning and I started the remaining pieces. I was prepared. I coordinated work efforts. I printed ahead to avoid the same conflicts we’d run into previously.

But as it always does, time slips away when I most need it to linger. The final pieces didn’t come together until way too late. The printers are like prehistoric beasts that amble on at their own speed (well obviously, they’re machines. You can’t make them go any faster). The humans who feed them (imagine me as zookeeper here) are caught up in the middle of a million things, and so the beasts spit out the wrong pages, printed on the back of the right pages, or worse yet, you survive printing only to meet a downfall somewhere else.

I hate team efforts. In theory, they’re so great. Everyone will work together, and it will all be good. But in the end, something always goes wrong. Then there’s the inevitable finger-pointing and attempts to come up with new plans. (Not that I’m saying that happens all the time to all people, I’m generalizing. But I’m also not wrong.)

Not that I’m so afraid they’ll fire me. I mean, I live in a constant state of fear of termination – even though I’ve never been fired from anything in my life – so much so that every time my boss emails me and says, “Come into my office,” even if it’s a meeting I’ve called, a jolt of panic shoots through my heart. I imagine that by the time I finally quell that fear, I’ll be called into an office somewhere only to enter entirely nonchalantly and given the news that I’m being let go. So instead, I think I’ll just keep letting the tiny panic happen. It’s reassuring.

I so desperately want to prove that I can handle it. I like it. I like challenge and projects, and being busy. I so desperately want to be able to handle it. “It” is the crushing weight of projects right now. I want to think that they’ll all be perfect, that they’ll be shipped off quietly and early, that we’ll manage to finally get one done where no one has to stress, but I don’t imagine that will ever be. That’s the problematic nature of team efforts. They don’t get easier with more hands, but they don’t get easier with fewer hands, either.

For my part, I swear I’m trying. I’m trying so damn hard. I worked so hard to avoid any of these problems this time. I corrected. I made adjustments. I thought ahead, but apparently, not far enough.

I found myself driving to the airport at 7:30 pm, pushing the accelerator down with abandon, gripping the steering wheel and staring intently into the distance, wishing that I could somehow close the gap between my location and my destination with sheer will.

[Of course, my gas light came on. With 50 or so miles to go, the gas light is a terrifying thing. I never let the tank get low. I’m the type of person who fills up at a quarter tank. This was, of course, just another inconvenient error in a month that’s seemed to be an endless tragic comedy of all things unintentional and yet so disheartening. Think of the new tires immediately after Las Vegas. Another example? Yesterday, I put my ice cream in the fridge instead of the freezer. Perhaps it’s early-onset dementia, but perhaps it’s just life overload. On the plus side, I made it back to my neck of the woods without running out of gas.]

I arrived with time to spare. For the second time in as many months, I got free packaging. The address checked out. Everything fit neatly. In less than five minutes, I was on my way out the door, finally headed home. So that’s a relief. We made it. Hectic and hellish, but done.

Through a series of misfortunate events (both of my own making and of the kind that fate likes to throw in just for fun), I keep coming up short lately (in life, too, not just work). Tomorrow, I’ll walk in there and take responsibility for everything, and I’ll feel like a failure.  I’m just so frustrated. With myself. With this summer. With all of it.

But at least now I can look forward. Hopefully tomorrow will bring something wonderful. Tuesdays are usually such good days.

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 Friday crying, belatedly

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(I wrote the body of this post yesterday, and then didn’t get around to publishing it until this morning. That’s why it’s in present tense even though it’s past.)

I woke up sad this morning. It was early, and instead of hitting the snooze button, I went and laid in the bathtub and read about proper eyebrow maintenance and whether or not antioxidants are all they’re cracked up to be (they are, apparently).

Done soaking (or rather, fed up with eyebrows and antioxidants), I dried myself and went back to lay in bed. Swisher was stirring, and when he woke up, I promptly burst into tears. I understand that it’s quite horrifying to wake up to your significant other sobbing, but he handled it beautifully. He wrapped me in the kind of full body hug that says “I love you but I will do anything to make you stop crying right now because I have no idea why you’re crying and this is scary.” Then he asked me if I’m going to cry through our whole (wholly hypothetical, of course) wedding ceremony. And then he proceeded to imitate it. I started giggling when he broke into fake sobs at “I now pronounce you…”

“I’m not coming back down to Denver tonight if you’re going to be a grump. I’ll hang out with my 22-year old roommates instead,” he told me before we left. (It was an empty threat. He will come back to Denver after class tonight. And I won’t be grumpy, promise.)

I’m making him chicken salad tonight. I love chicken salad; it’s one of the best things on this planet, and it’s one of the few things that I can make consistently. I want to surprise him and have everything ready when he gets to my house.  Keep your fingers crossed that he likes it.

This post, over at “Enjoying the Small Things” was also tear-inducing. This is my city. I love that she understands what it feels like to be there. I am a city-girl, at heart, and I would give anything to be laying on the beach staring at Lake Michigan right now. When I lived downtown, sometimes I would just wander through downtown. I’d wander for hours. I love the anonymity that you feel when you’re walking down a street, surrounded by tall buildings and people who don’t care who you are. There are glances exchanged, pleasantries, but mostly, you are no one, you are a speck. It’s humbling and empowering at the same time. You belong entirely to yourself.

I hope you’re all having wonderful Fridays! Mine seems to be getting better.

On Bacon Ice Cream, Dejectedly

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I’m panicking this week. Normally, my stress level is about 25% higher than my peers. (That’s on a good day.) This week, for some reason, there’s a nasty frisson coursing through my veins. I feel it tingling at my fingertips, nagging at my cerebellum, squeezing my stomach.

Whatever it is, I’m not sure, but in situations like this, I find myself overwhelmed to the point of inactivity. Rather than channel my anxiety into productivity, I find myself captivated by the inane.

For example: I started this blog post intending to blog about my disappointment with the dessert I had the other night. I then attempted to write about adulthood and why it sucks. And now, I’m off on panicking.

So let’s make this all three of them, and then I’ll be able to say that at the very least, I got one thing crossed off my list today.

You’ve already heard about the panic that threatens to halt my forward progress into Tuesday, supposedly the most productive day of the week, so perhaps now you’d like to hear about why adulthood sucks.

You’re probably an adult. Presumably, you’ve survived 24. Being 24 feels like being in the trash compactor in Star Wars. All sides closing in, it’s do or die. And while I doubt that I’ll be crushed by a giant trash compactor any time soon, I do feel the pressure to be everything at once. Being all things to all people is impossible, as Barack Obama is slowly learning.

But most things seem possible. My goals in life are thus: don’t be a dick, give something back to this planet, be happy, eat as much chocolate cake as possible, have a family, do something I love (but that also is financially rewarding enough to provide for travel, and  health care, and retirement, and emergency expenses, and food, and cute pants), and be satisfied with who I am at the end of every single day. Okay, so that’s pretty doable.

But here’s my one problem with the here and now: there’s too much. I work three jobs. I love my family (and therefore spend quite a bit of time with them). I have a social life (which I also happen to love). I travel. I have a boyfriend (…ready for it? I love him, too). I want to read all the blogs and all the news articles in the world. I want to understand pop culture references. I want to make time for bubble baths. I want to travel. I want to learn. I want to explore. I want to savor.

But seriously, how does one find time to do all of that and sleep at night? Between the influx of necessary-to-stay-relevant knowledge and my attempts to embrace adulthood, I’m overwhelmed. But it’s do or die, so I will complain and whine and then I will look back at this age when I’m 30 and think, “Man, if only I was 24 without a care in the world again” and be ashamed that I bothered to do so much stressing. I will realize that I have been flourishing all along.

But, whether or not I’m flourishing is a topic of discussion for a later date. The real reason you’re here is bacon ice cream.

Bacon Ice Cream, Nutella Bread Pudding, The Pullman

I was in Glenwood Springs with my mom and aunt this weekend, and for a belated birthday dinner, we ate at the Pullman.

The food itself was delicious, but I was one hundred percent dissatisfied with my dessert. Nutella bread pudding and bacon ice cream. My god, how can you go wrong? Well you can. And they did.

The bread pudding was dry without any hint of chocolate or hazelnut flavoring. The bacon ice cream was….indescribable. It was the kind of dish that you take a bite of and then smack around in your mouth trying to figure out what it is you might be eating. No distinguishable flavor. They’d have been better off garnishing a scoop of vanilla ice cream with bits of crisp bacon. I mashed the ice cream around on the plate. I was sad. More than that, I was disappointed. I’d rather just have spent the $7 on a jar of Nutella and a package of bacon. I would have been so much happier dipping a piece of bacon into Nutella.

On Everything, mostly

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I’ve been avoiding blogging lately. Not because I don’t want to, but because there is so much swirling inside my head and I fear that it will all lump together incoherently and ruin the messages I intend to convey. But I am finding that the longer I put it off, the more everything builds up.

So faced with the incoherent, potentially ruinous lumping or the lack of content, I’ll take the lumping. City Park Statue with Frogs

On Friday night, Jacob and I made dinner and walked around the park as darkness fell. It was cold and rainy, but the air felt good and the conversation warmed my soul. I am grateful for my friendships. My friends are all individualistic, beautiful people. They possess the qualities that I value most in this world, and I respect them immensely.

It doesn’t hurt that Jacob and Carlos adore each other, either. Carlos doesn’t snuggle for just anyone, but he will always snuggle for Jacob. It’s cute.

Jacob and Carlos

(Side note: I got home on Sunday night, and Mike told me that he thought Carlos had died earlier. I was concerned, and upon hearing the story, I just shook my head and looked at the furry creature rubbing himself against my ankles. Mike said that the other black cat that lives in the building had somehow managed to get herself outside my window, and Carlos was howling and trying to attack her through the window. The cat had gotten himself through the blinds and was frantically trying to get at her. I’m just glad the glass held – I accidentally put my hand through one of the panes last  year – and Mike grabbed the cat and took him away from the window. I’m still not sure how I managed to adopt a cat that’s half pit bull. I’m also not sure how he can go from ferocious and wild to loving and needy, demanding that I snuggle with him. I do love him, though, so he should consider himself very lucky.)

in the Mirror

Swisher comes on Wednesday. I can hardly believe that it’s just two days now. I am so excited to not have to take mirror pictures all the time so that I can send them to him. (The great news about unlimited data plans? All the picture messaging you want! It’s allowed us to share experiences, events, mundane pictures, bad hair days, etc.) My phone is filled with pictures just like the one above, and I’m pretty sure that if someone went through my phone, they’d assume that I’m just a terrible narcissist.

I can’t wait. I guess I can, but only because I have to. We’re going to be faced with the immense task of turning our past into a relationship that isn’t long distance. I imagine that it will be an adjustment, but I also imagine that it will be quite wonderful, since both of us are committed to making this work.

I love that he loves me exactly as I am. He loves my curly hair. In fact, he prefers it. He loves my mind, my weird sense of humor, my opinionated nature. I am thrilled by the fact that he wants to cook for me, and has offered to help clean! And best of all, he’s not a purse-carrier (something my family is always quick to ask about). I love that he makes me laugh, and I love how much he teases me.

At Mother’s Day brunch, my Uncle Mike and Aunt Jan were excited to tell me that they had gotten into a debate about something. (Earlier this year, I was attempting to explain that I’d like a mate whose desire for discussion matches mine, and they thought that it was hilarious. “Should we make a list of things to debate about?” my Uncle asked, before adding, “Besides who’s going to make the sandwiches for lunch tomorrow?” I love that thirty-plus years of marriage hasn’t dampened their good-natured teasing. It’s something that I’m looking forward to if I should be so lucky to find a dude who will put up with me for thirty-plus years.)

birth mom!

Speaking of family, I was lucky enough to get to spend my first Mother’s Day breakfast with my birth mom, Lise, who was passing through town with her boyfriend. I haven’t seen her since I was 18 and had just graduated from high school.

(This is us then:)

I was excited to show her the paw print in my eye, since her spirit animal is a wolf and we’ve had a few fascinating (partly creepy, but mostly fascinating) experiences – when I was three, I was on the phone with her and told her that the wolves came to me at night and gathered around my bed, but that I got scared, and when my dad came into the room, they ran away and jumped over the fence. (It was a very intense dream. I had forgotten about the entire incident, but when she mentioned the fence detail, an image rushed through my brain of the blur of wolves and the back fence.) She tells me that the way I told her that story was so unlike a three year old and that she was very comforted by it. When I was 19, I was looking in the mirror in the car and I realized that in the blue of my eye, there is very clear dark paw print that’s set off from the rest of the blue. It’s like I carry her mark with me, and I enjoy that.

My boss, who adopted his four children, says that adopted kids always want to know two things: 1. who are my parents? (or in my case, what do they look like) and 2. why did they give me up? I think he’s right. I know the answer to the second question, and half of the first.

I will never know more about my birth father, but I am so grateful to have an open adoption. I am so glad that I get to see her. I agree with my boss when he says that he doesn’t see much resemblance. As I age, I am more and more sure that I carry a lot of my birth father’s appearance with me. I so badly wish that I could see a picture of him, but there are none. Ah, well. I will settle for the relationship that I have with my birth mother, because I am so lucky to have her in my life (and I’m not actually settling at all).

Both of us are double-jointed, so we showed her boyfriend that at breakfast. He cringed, and both of us laughed. My mom says that there were times when I was little that I would say something, and she’d turn around, half expecting to see Lise there because what I had just said sounded exactly like her. Both of us are unique, beautiful women, and knowing her has helped me to understand a lot about myself. I also love being able to compare our characteristics. As much as I am a product of my environment and therefore carry the qualities of my mother, I am also so much a product of my birth mother and therefore have much of her personality and emotions. i

It’s a beautiful thing. I should also mention that my brother Mike’s birth mother, Jill, is just as wonderful. She always comments on my photos and writes on my mom’s wall on his birthday to tell her that she’s thinking about her. It’s just good. It’s all good.

Mike has actively chosen not to know his birth father. We know who he is, and I wonder if at some point later, Mike will desire to build a relationship with him. But I love and value the fact that he has that choice, and that everyone involved respects his decisions.

Adoption is a beautiful thing. Even though the nuclear family that we were both adopted into would eventually shatter completely, we were placed exactly where we were meant to be. We have been so well loved. Anyone who discounts the forces of the universe and fate would be well advised to look deeply at my life, and at my beautiful family. We are exactly where we were meant to be.

Mom babysitting

Speaking of moms, this is my mother and two of our neighbors. She was so excited to babysit for the little one across the street this weekend, and I don’t blame her. He’s so happy. He was all smiles and he handled the attention he was receiving from the four of us beautifully. I held him and fell in love with him.

And then I ran off to do my regularly scheduled babysitting, which included negotiating story time with a very grumpy four-year old and then trying to talk a seven-year old back into sleeping after the rain woke her.

I had a bit of revelation last night. Unbeknownst to me, dinner plans with my other grandma (on my dad’s side) had been cancelled, and so upon my arrival, I found no one. I went in anyway, and ended up staying for dinner at my grandma’s.

We sat outside while it was still warmish and sunny, and talked. I was guarded, as I always am when I’m there. “Is he Catholic?” she inquired about Swisher, after asking me when he was moving here. I responded that yes, he’d gone to Catholic schools. We ended up diverting, and discussing religion. “What is it with the young people these days?” she wanted to know. I responded that choosing Benedict as our pontiff was a bad choice because he’s obviously not a fan of the social justice that I found to be such a positive part of the church while I was at Loyola.

She asked if I go to mass. I don’t. I went with them on Easter, but I usually just go as part of a family-mandated holiday schedule. The disappointment in her voice was clear. I explained to her that for people my age, the Church (church in general, to non-Catholics) represents a very challenging and hypocritical worldview. I explained that Mike finds god through nature while he’s camping and fishing, and in the introspection that he does while he’s there. I explained that I find god in people. I told her that I find god through kindness and love and acceptance and understanding. I emphasized my belief that god, whatever that means, will not bar me from “heaven” based on my lack of organized religion. I emphasized that love and kindness guide me.

I actually borrowed an explanation from Kelle Hampton, a blogger, who’s book Bloom: Finding Beauty in the Unexpected is on shelves now (20% off at Barnes & Noble, I found on Friday): after her parents divorce when she was a child, she found that the church, which she had previously found to be a beautiful, loving place, became scary in its condemnation of her father’s homosexuality. She writes in the book that church so often gets in the way of god, and I think that she makes that point beautifully. It’s everything I’ve wanted to say about organized religion as an obstacle to god, because people get so wrapped up in interpreting the Bible (or whichever religious text their religion refers to) literally that they forget to live the spirit. People forget to live lives full of love and caring. I told my grandmother that Jesus hung out with lepers and prostitutes, and welcomed all. Why can’t we attempt to do the same?

As dinner progressed, I was happy, but I was also wary. Her focus is not on my career, my baby steps to success, my tiny triumphs, my personal happiness, but is instead is on my eventual marriage and whether or not the guy that I’m dating is wealthy or not. Honestly, I find that people who were raised swaddled in money are often lacking basic life skills, including independence. They can’t do anything for themselves. That was a gross generalization, but honestly, I detest the fact that financial worth somehow equates to the worth of a person. I have watched ruin come to people who must maintain some sort of lifestyle. And I refuse to be a part of that. I wish to be happy.

For a few years now, a rift has been growing between the “other side of things” and me. I’m still not sure what exactly I did to set it off, and to progressively widen it, but I have remained steadfast in my unwillingness to engage in behavior that mirrors the actions of the people whose name I bear, the family that I wanted so badly to belong to. It was last night that I realized that I have no desire to be a part of a family that does not love me unconditionally, but at the base level, it’s about respect. I have no desire to be a part of a family that does not respect me.

I respect my grandfather immensely. He is a wonderful man who is given far too little credit for his progressive thinking and his intelligence. I have always found him to be a wonderful opponent for debating issues, as he is far more patient and wise than most people I’ve ever met. He has a keen political mind and is still incredibly sharp.

I refuse to accept the lack of transparency. One of the things that I respect most about my relationship with my mother is that she is open, honest, and willing to admit when she is wrong. It’s refreshing, and it’s shaped our relationship into something I am incredibly proud of.

I find that the inability to be upfront and honest is what has most affected (and soured) my relationships with most members of my dad’s side of the family. I reached out, and was rebuffed on two separate occasions, and then informed via third party (Grandma) that I was expected to apologize.

It breaks my heart, although I will not compromise my integrity nor will I pretend that I’m not hurt. At the end of the day, I still have no idea what it is about me that’s not okay. Is it that I don’t go to church? Is it that I was offended by my aunt’s suggestion that I start to be more financially responsible for my grandparents? Is it that I have gay friends?

Since December 24, 2010, I have been confused and hurt. I refuse to remain that way and thus have decided that it’s no longer a priority of mine to worry about the things that I cannot control. It feels good to let go. It feels good to accept responsibility for things I can accept responsibility for and make amends, but unfortunately, without knowing what I’ve done, I cannot accept responsibility for the severing of these relationships. I remain the free-spirited, open-minded person that I have been. I remain honest and true to myself. It is out of my hands, and I’m alright with that.

On Gender and Ambition, dejectedly

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(I still have backlogs of articles I’d like to address, so hopefully I can start posting and writing my critiques, comments, etc. soon!)

Madeline sent me this link last week and I thought I’d share the article with you.

Before you read it, know this: I’m a huge believer in the idea that there can be successful co-parenting, or successful relationships, or marriages full of good sex (or all of those things combined with monetary comfort!).

While I don’t think I’d last too long as a stay-at-home mom, I also don’t imagine my future to be full of trying to work 60 hour weeks and then awesome parenting while my husband just hangs out.

Note to readers: this is all coming from my childhood. My extreme paranoia about terrible husbands stems from my past experiences. My mom worked her ass off trying to support us all financially (and put my brother and I through private schools) while my dad didn’t take on the additional burden of stay-at-home dad (including, but not limited to: laundry, cooking, dishes, cleaning, childcare, etc.) even though it would have been well within his means and skill set and would have drastically improved the parental-contribution-to-the-family-via-work balance that did not exist.

Admittedly, my memories have been lost to my own subconscious erasure as well as the emotional tints that seem to color our own recollections of the past. Therefore, I can claim no exact memory validity yet still claim personal memory legitimacy. Whatever. You try to recollect and see for yourself how difficult it can be.

Regardless, as a young, twenty-something woman, I do feel pressure. Tons of pressure. Some of it is self-inflicted and some of it stems from a whole host of other influences. That pressure to succeed drives my work ethic, my independence, my stubborn sense of self, and my panic about the future. (Always panic, that’d be my motto.)

I always read the comments, too. Sometimes they’re far more enlightening than the content of the article itself. Since this one only has three, it wasn’t difficult to get through them. Here’s the lengthiest (is that a word?) one:

BRYANROBB
I expected more from you, Good. This is terribly one sided reporting, and borderline misandristic to the likes of Jezebel. No wonder men don’t want to marry, every which way we turn we’re getting boxed and blamed. Did you ever stop to consider that the older men who make more than their women counterparts are the last vestiges of a bygone era? Soon they will retire, and as the women age through the system it is very likely that these young women will make more than their male counterparts. Also, give me the kids over cut throat corporate America any day. The two earner model is the cause of our failures as decent parents, all so we can afford more stuff? I don’t care who works and who doesn’t, but someone needs to be home with the kids in the formative years. And sure, I’m definitely for subsidizing child care. For single MOMs and DADs. Too bad almost all low income entitlements go to girls and men are exempt. Stop waging war on men for Pete’s sake.

I don’t disagree that this article is very one-sided. But then again, there’s not enough space in the world to give equal time to discuss women’s ambitions while simultaneously deconstructing the reasons that men may feel maligned by the media and neglected about the social pressures they face.

This article isn’t about men.

The only time that the author (whose posts I generally adore, by the way) could REALLY use some more statistical reference is when she says,

And while women are consumed with the problems of “work-life balance”—trying to maintain a successful career while raising a family—men seldom feel as much pressure or face as much doubt about their ability to “do it all.”

I don’t know that she’s entirely correct in making that assumption. I’d argue that men are feeling the pressure to “do it all” but instead of being accepted, they’re facing the same social stigmas that have kept gendered activities as segregated as a 7th grade school dance for so many generations.
Regardless of our new stances on equality and whatnot, we are failing to accept that there are differences. In our quest for equalization, we’ve neglected so much about individuality, about personality, about biology, and in doing so, we’ve created a situation that’s arguably far worse than before.
Take the emergence of “stay at home dads,” for instance. Advertising for household items is always geared toward women. Stay at home dads aren’t given the same amount of respect. It’s emasculating, I’m sure, to know that people don’t value what you do. But then again, welcome to the flip side of things.
For me, a household has many factors for success. You need cash flow to buy supplies, necessities, etc. But you also need to address the rest of it: chores, bills, laundry, parenting, cooking, shopping, maintenance, etc. Those two elements (the cash flow and the “rest of it”) need to be in harmony in order for a household to maintain successful balance. Communication is key. More than that, all parties need to recognize the importance of contributions made for the common good of the household.
Honestly, the thing that scares me most about this article is the bad sex after marriage, not to mention the extra weight, less money and more stress. But then again, it’s up to those women (obligatory heterosexual bias of the media comment here) to stand up to their husbands and tell them what’s up. I won’t stand for more housework, more stress, and less sex. And he’ll know that before he marries me. If that’s a deal breaker, I will have chosen the wrong man.

Why Are Young Women More Ambitious? They Have to Be


The headline of a new study by the Pew Research Center claims to have discovered “A Gender Reversal On Career Aspirations.” But upon closer inspection, the study appears to imply that young women are more ambitious than men their age across the board. Sixty-six percent of 18 to 34-year-old women rate their career high on their list of life priorities, compared with 59 percent of young men. This figure hasn’t really “reversed,” but it has shifted markedly in the past 15 years—in 1997, only 56 percent of young women felt the same way, compared to 58 percent of men.

Today’s young women aren’t planning to make any sacrifices on the home front, either—they’re prioritizing their personal lives, too. The amount of young women who say that having a successful marriage is one of the most important things in their lives has risen nine percentage points since 1997, from 28 to 37 percent. For young men, that stat is trending in the opposite direction—from 35 percent in 1997 to 29 percent now. More young women than men care about being a good parent—59 percent, compared to 47 percent of their male counterparts. It looks like young women are more likely to be thinking consciously about their priorities, period. Do dudes just not give thought to their futures at all?

Perhaps guys aren’t mulling their life priorities because they trust that marriage, parenthood and career usually work out better for them in the longrun. They’re right about that. When women begin their careers, they earn virtually the same as their male peers (95 cents to every dude dollar), but as they near their early thirties, the pay gap widens—women have kids, take maternity leave, and stall their careers for a few years, or else they get passed over for promotions and yearly raises. By the time a women nears retirement age, she earns around 75 cents for every dollar a man her age earns.

Although marriage is lower on young men’s list of priorities, they’ll fare better when they eventually tie the knot. Numerous studies show that married men are happier, live longer, make more money, and experience less stress, while married women are rewarded with more housework, less money, worse sex and a few extra pounds. And while women are consumed with the problems of “work-life balance”—trying to maintain a successful career while raising a family—men seldom feel as much pressure or face as much doubt about their ability to “do it all.” Women still end up performing the majority of the parenting, regardless of their jobs, and despite public platitudes revering the work of motherhood, the lack of universal childcare and inadequate (or nonexistent) parental-leave policies set women up to fail.

No amount of girl power—or denial—can obscure these deep-set gender dynamics. Women are acutely aware of the need to be especially ambitious in order to succeed—the same extra ambition any marginalized group needs to climb the career ladder and crack glass ceilings. It’s the reason more women are getting college degrees, and the reason why many women try more intently to find a mate at a younger age (although that’s changing). The sexual economy, as well as the professional one, are simply skewed in men’s favor, especially as the years go on. Why wouldn’t they be more relaxed about their life choices?

Photo by (cc) Flickr user gcoldironjr2003.

article source: GOOD

On Simon, on the occasion of 80,000

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I drove the long way home yesterday, and to my immense satisfaction, pulled up to my apartment building just as he had hit 80,000 miles.

(I have no idea why it looks like it’s raining in my car.)

At six years old, he’s all grown up. I’ve had him for nearly 50,000 wonderful miles. We go everywhere together, and I imagine that I will keep him until he dies, or until I have kids, or something else gets in my way.

And of course, on this most excellent occasion, Simon found himself in the shop, having an oil change and some transmission issues. A few months ago (six months? nine? I think it was summer but who knows), I was driving down Colorado Blvd when my car freaked out. Now, I’m not one who has any experience in dealing with car problems, so my car jerking and shuddering and jumping all over the place while the D light was blinking was positively terrifying.

I called the Honda dealership. Of course, I should have anticipated their response: “That normally doesn’t happen in a Civic. We normally see that in Odysseys and Pilots.” Alas, they informed that it was a pressure switch in my transmission and that I need to bring my car in. “Can I drive on it for a bit?” I asked. They told me that I could, but I’d probably get terrible gas mileage.

Here we are so many months later. The D light stopped blinking and the never did the shuddering jumping jerking business again, so I never brought it in. But it’s been worrying the back of my brain, as transmission issues do. The gas mileage has remained pretty steady, so no complaints here.

I took the car into my mechanic, who’s basically the best mechanic ever. He calls me to tell me that he doesn’t really feel any loss of power when he drives. I cut in about the D light. “The D light was blinking!? No one told me about that! I’ll call you back!” The phone went dead. He called me back about a half an hour later to tell me that yes, it is a transmission pressure switch error code but it’s also another error code.

But then he tells me not to worry, because it’s not bad enough to deal with. (I love this guy. He’ll let you know what’s urgent and what’s not.) I still need to be super vigilant about my transmission, because at the first sign of trouble, I’m going to need to replace something about the solenoids and the pressure switch, or worse, the whole damn thing.

I’ve got his blessing to keep driving on it and he’s going to give me the name of his transmission people. So, Simon and I shall keep adventuring until it’s time to do some serious surgery. At that point, if it’s the $400 repair, I won’t hesitate, but if it’s the entire transmission, we’ll have to do some serious thinking about whether or not it’s worth it. But for now, I’m still just as excited about him as I was the day that I got him.

I bought Simon when I was 20. It was February 4, 2008 (yeah, I guess that’s weird, but it’s a date I’ll never forget). When I turned the car on for the first time, the odometer read 33,111. I knew right then that I had to have him. (That, and the fact that I spent as much time as I could in my Grandma Mary’s car when I was a kid because she had a digital speedometer. I thought her car was the best ever. And yet, somehow, I’d managed to get a digital speedometer of my own! Luckiest girl ever, I swear.)

Simon at night, with bubbles. Illinois. 2009?

Simon, at dusk. Illinois, Halloween, 2010.

(side note: Old Dave may have been right about the sex appeal [or lack thereof] of Birkenstocks.)

In the four years that I’ve had him, he’s been crushed, crunched, cracked, and spray painted. He’s hit bugs, curbs, rocks, potholes. He’s driven and driven and driven. And I have loved every single minute of it.

Simon in Wisconsin, barely. Winter/Spring 2010.

Simon reflecting in Rocky Mountain National Park, June 2009.

Oh and the best part?

80,000 miles divided by 6 years is 13,333.33 miles per year, on average. It’s just one of those things that was meant to be.