Last night there was the obligatory girl bonding session which included delicious South African apricot cheese from some vineyards we visited on the wine tour, chocolate filled with mousse, wine, and of course, a girly movie.

From 10 Things I Hate About You (which I now own on DVD and on VHS):

I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair.

I hate the way you drive my car, I hate it when you stare.

I hate your big, dumb combat boots and the way you read my mind.

I hate you so much it makes me sick — It even makes me rhyme.

I hate the way you’re always right. I hate it when you lie.

I hate it when you make me laugh — Even worse when you make me cry.

I hate it when you’re not around. And the fact that you didn’t call.

But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you — Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all

Can you tell I’m spending too much time on the internet?
At work, I take things as they come, at a plodding pace. It’s nearly eleven o’clock in the morning and all I’ve done today was to read a bunch of emails about Mullen and then walk to Pick N Pay to buy the newspaper we placed on hold yesterday and then cut some stuff out.
Acting as copy girl, I brought my boss some tea and muffins and then I returned to my spot to remain idle.
In a bit, I’m giving out a form to the learners and then will sit with them for forty minutes as they fill out a questionnaire about their presumptions about the world, AIDS, etc.
It’s part of a larger project in which we take a baseline of their worldview and then reassess them after the conclusion of the course. That follow up data is inserted into the same database as the initial assessment and then sent off the foundation for comparison.

It’s only Wednesday but the loneliness has already set in. Priscilla was gone for dinner the other night, out at the Spur for Angela’s birthday, leaving me with four or so hours of freedom. Now normally this wouldn’t be a lot, but when you’re a stranger in someone else’s house and you’ve found that you’ve got nothing but time on your hands, things start to get strange.
I sat for awhile, reading. But it felt strange to be reading, almost as though I was trying to go to bed too early. So I had dinner. And then I read some more. And while I should have been doing something productive (read this as: physcial activity of some sort), by the time I had the urge to go outside, darkness was falling and I know there’s no point in leaving the house past dusk as the danger level seems to multiply by nearly a million at the point of time that the sun dips below the moutain range and leaves us shrouded in the darkness.
So I started thinking.
And oh the thoughts came swirling out of my mind, as though they’d been crouched there, just waiting for me to call them up and put them to work.
Life and love and everything in between.
It’s been more than a day now, nearly two but the thoughts haven’t left.
It’s like there’s a tornado of information inside my mind and it won’t quiet. Today, I made a pact with myself, a quiet plan for the future. I spent an hour Googling for jobs for myself and not for anyone else. I selfishly searched salary information and requirements and came up short.
But it’s alright. I have a base plan. I have an idea. Hopefully that spark will grow and grow and turn into a career.
Let me remind you, Verizon does 100% tuition assitance (tuition costs, books, etc) for degrees that align with the career path there. So what is a year of customer service or sales? It’s a base. It’s something. It’s money that I currently don’t have. It’s food on the table for me and cat food in Carlos’s bowl. It’s a start. It’s Simon’s new bumper. It’s the beginning of my 401(k). It’s a benefits package.
Keep your fingers crossed, then. Here’s hoping they’ll see something in me and hire me, odd resume and Communications degree and all.

Deep breaths.

Maybe the yoga I’ve been putting off might need to come in handy right about now. Or sooner than now, if possible.

Below: an article that’s really got me pissed off today. $250,000 may not be rich, but don’t have the balls to call yourself “middle class” and then talk about how you can’t afford your gardener. And don’t talk about how “living beyond your means” is something that the middle class “has” to do. There is much more segmentation in the class system than just simply “rich” and then “middle class” and it’s not as if the middle class is so poor itself.
Do some research into the poverty lines and you’ll see that you’re already living well above their (the actual “poor”) means.

If you live in an expensive neighborhood, it doesn’t make you poor if you can’t afford it, it makes you an idiot for buying a house you can’t afford.
It’s not about how much you make, it’s about how well you budget. And I seriously doubt that anyone making $250,000 should worry about not being able to make ends meet. They just need to reevaluate their spending habits and the cost of all of those “necessary” expenses. And for the record, a gardener and a maid are not necessary expenses.

And also, you could live quite happily in a big city like Chicago on $250,000 per year, provided you aren’t living somewhere ridiculously expensive and provided that you own what you have. Yeah, the city is damn expensive, but it doesn’t have to be as expensive as some people make it out to be.

And maybe you’re not “rich” but you’re certainly well off and your energy would be better spent shutting your mouth and doing something productive instead of whining like a spoiled child.
Grow up. There are people more deserving of your money than you’ll ever be, Elie Mystal (and Todd Henderson, too, for that matter).

Earning $250,000 Does Not Make You Rich, Not in My Town

By Elie Mystal

Last week, University of Chicago law professor Todd Henderson published a controversial post on Truth on the Market. Henderson revealed that he and his wife have a combined income of over $250,000, but argued that this doesn’t make them rich — certainly not rich enough to afford the new taxes Obama seeks to impose on married couples making $250K or more.

You can read the full post over at Brad DeLong’s blog, Grasping Reality with Both Hands. You cannot read the full post on Truth on the Market, because the post has been taken down. Henderson explains why:

The reason I took the very unusual step of deleting [the post and comments] is because my wife, who did not approve of my original post and disagrees vehemently with my opinion, did not consent to the publication of personal details about our family. In retrospect, it was a highly effective but incredibly stupid thing to do. The electronic lynch mob that has attacked and harassed me — you should see the emails sent to me personally! — has made my family feel threatened and insecure.

Well, Professor Henderson, I’ve got your back. We might fight to the death about the proper use of the government’s fiscal authority, but it should be beyond obvious that earning $250,000 a year in this country does not make you rich. That figure doesn’t even approach “wealth,” especially if you live in a major city.

I might have a little more experience with electronic lynch mobs then Professor Henderson, so bring it on if you must. But for all the moral outrage one can level at a person bitching about making “only” $250K, know that $250K per annum is much closer to the minimum starting point you need to bank in order to have a shot at “making it” in the expensive cities of America. Living the dream requires a whole hell of a lot more….

If you are starving and I give you a mayonnaise sandwich, you’re going to be pretty happy. You’ll probably say that you’ve eaten well that day. Due to your poverty and malnutrition, your “American Dream” might well be to simply get to the point where you can have three mayonnaise sandwiches a day, and perhaps provide additional sandwiches to your spouse and children. Similarly, if you are earning $50,000 a year, the prospect of earning $250,000 a year probably seems like a panacea. Think about it: you’d be earning five times as much! I’ve yet to meet the person who wouldn’t love to quintuple his or her salary. From the perspective of a person making $50,000 a year or less (the subset could also be called “most Americans”), the person or family making $250,000 a year is rich.

Except he’s not. Sorry to burst your bubble, but “zero money down” is a bad idea, ultra-feminine lesbian sexbots don’t really exist, and $250K doesn’t allow you to live in financial comfort. Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems.

In fact, most people who make $250K aren’t even sitting there thinking: “Ooh, if I bust my ass and play my cards right, being ‘rich’ is just around the corner for me and my family.” If, God forbid, $250K also represents all you have, being truly rich is probably not even an option for you. You can’t “invest” in anything with the piddling savings you’ve stowed away. You can’t “buy” anything, other then maybe a family home and a some consumer assets that will start to depreciate the minute you breathe on them. And what you’re not spending on your day-to-day expenses had best go to retirement, unless you want to be 80 years old and confusing your grandkids with stories about “Social Security” and other entitlement programs they have never heard of.

No, if you are making $250K a year, what gets you out of bed every morning isn’t even the desire to become rich. Instead, you’re motivated by the white-knuckle fear that something will go wrong and you’ll be cast back down with the sodomites who struggle valiantly to eke out an existence on $50K or less. You are certainly not rich, but you are terrified of becoming poor.

When Professor Henderson broke down his expenses, included in them were things that make a person sound rich. He’s got a gardener. He’s got a cleaning lady. FAT CAT ALERT! Anybody who can afford to buy himself out of manual labor must be rich, right?

But hold on to your pitchforks for just a minute. I don’t think anybody wants to live in a country where the purchase of a luxury good or service defines people as “rich.” If that was the world we wanted, there would be an awful lot of people walking here with flat-screen televisions and fine automobiles, who would also be defined as “rich.” I’m looking at you, legal secretary with a $60,000-a-year job who somehow finds an extra $5,000 to take a vacation to Bermuda during non-hurricane season. I’m looking at you, $57,000-a-year paralegal who makes me feel bad about my “sales rack at Macy’s” wardrobe. Americans spend money on all kinds of “luxury” crap that they have no business buying. You know what makes you rich? When you can actually afford all that junk.

And at $250K, you simply can’t afford it. Take me. My wife and I are just under the $250K potential tax threshold — thanks honey! your law degree does not make your ass look fat! — and if things break right for us, we’ll be over it next year (click on these ads, click on them now, you damn freeloaders). But if you think that affords me anything more than a paycheck-to-paycheck monthly scramble, you’re out of your freaking mind.

I own nothing (mmm… judgment proof) — not a stock, a bond — and the only market for my “assets” is the “Cash for Gold” shop in Atlantic City. I pay a ridiculous premium to live in my 2-1-2 area code, and I live in a hovel so embarrassing that when non-New Yorkers come to visit, they assume I’ve just been robbed. As we shuffle by Park Avenue apartments that I can’t afford to even look at, my dog tries to break her leash and get herself adopted by someone who can afford her upkeep. I’m a professional blogger, yet my computer is so old I can’t even download decent porn off the internet anymore. Last night I got a text from my Manhattan bedbugs which read, “Dude, we can’t live like this no more, peace out loser.”

And I don’t even have kids. And I didn’t even bring up my debts.

Could we rework our expenses to pay new taxes or generally save more money? Of course. We’re middle-class. That’s what middle-class people do: live as far above their means as possible until it becomes impossible. And then we play the lotto like everyone else. Rich people don’t play the lotto, and they don’t live above their means. They worry about whether or not they can afford another plane, not whether they can afford to fly coach.

And those people, the real rich people, those people should be taxed. Tax the living hell out of them, I say (I’m a liberal, it’s in the handbook). Henderson points out that the truly rich are avoiding taxes by hiding money in the Caymans or by using complicated financial instruments, and I say Obama should be going after that money. Stop being afraid of being labeled as “anti-business,” and go get the money from the people who can afford to pay it.

And if Obama does get that money, if he does what is hard and actually closes offshore tax loopholes and raises the capital gains tax and executes all the policies that embody true fiscal restraint and make Republicans cry in the night, and then he comes back to me and says, “Yeah, and we still need to raise taxes on those making more than $250K,” I’ll say fine. I’m willing to pay my share, albeit begrudgingly. I absolutely recognize that at $250K I’m doing a hell of a lot better than my buddy who makes $62K, lives with four random roommates, and once told me that if you add frozen peas to a cup of ramen it’s a more nutritious and filling dinner because the peas pack extra protein at a cost-effective price. Yeah Obama, tax me, not that guy. I get it.

But don’t call me rich. Don’t insult me by putting my family and Michael Bloomberg’s family in the same freaking talking point. If you want to blow that “quarter of a million dollars a year” soundbite up the ass of a laid-off steelworker in Pittsburgh, fine. But you know damn well that $250K does not make one rich in this country.

(http://abovethelaw.com/2010/09/earning-250000-does-not-make-you-rich-not-in-my-town/)
 

Because where would we be without opinionated girly links??

http://www.thefrisky.com/post/246-25-signs-hes-not-the-one/?obref=obinsite

Twenty Five Signs He’s Not the One.

And some of them hit home.

Two posts this morning in Cape Town newspapers that deliver a shocking look into the state of gender affairs in this country.
Gender and sexuality-related violence seems to be a global issue.
The sterilisation article seems to highlight an issue that is more localized, although I know that birth control and other related (medical, invasive and otherwise) issues will be a fight between women and government for years to come.

http://www.iol.co.za/?art_id=vn20100916043709577C671043
(Woman Sterilized Without Her Permission)
Cape Times

http://www.iol.co.za/?art_id=vn20100916072627686C184866
(Killers Escape)

Worth reading both of these articles. They both raise questions about the judicial system’s effectiveness at thwarting crimes and then its ability to maintain control over judicial proceedings, including handling and transport of prisoners.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/12/fashion/12Love.html?src=me&ref=style

Above is a link to a New York Times article I found interesting. It’s about the relationship between a lesbian-identifying woman and her female to male transsexual partner, from a sexual reassignment surgery (sort of) to the breakup, extending as far as the aftermath of the breakup.

It’s interesting to realize that the lifespan of a relationship is similar across much of the spectrum of sexuality; no matter what kind of person is involved in the relationship, it still manifests itself with the same standard characteristics: original attraction, change, monotony, finality, guilt, etc.

I hope you’ll enjoy the article as much as I did.

Since I’ll be in Cape Town until the beginning of December, you can track my blog there at:

http://www.katiebarryincapetown.blogspot.com/

Sorry for the temporary move!

Katie has been my best friend since my first day of high school. She was the first person to say hi to me in the hall, and I thought she was a cool kid. I was wrong. (Not that she’s not a cool kid, but she wasn’t a “cool kid,” if that makes any sense. It does to me, probably because it is one of the most vivid memories I’ve retained in my fourteen year old mind.)
I love her. This sounds ridiculous, but being with her has shown me the true depth of love. I will never settle for a man who doesn’t sometimes give me butterflies like she does. It’s old and new and never boring.
I went up to Fort Collins last night to see her before I leave for Cape Town. I love the atmosphere of Fort Collins; it’s such a funny place but it’s so comfortable. Her house is always the same, and I’m always leaving stuff there or forgetting stuf but it’s never an issue.

We went out and were soon approached by a lone man. He offered us drinks. We spent a good few minutes scouting out his position at the bar to check for drug-slippage. There was none, but you never can be too sure. We made him switch all the drinks around, which he was glad to do. We drank them and then thanked him and invited him to sit down.
He did. He and Katie hit it off and started talking, playing the question game. One would ask a question, we’d all have to answer, then someone else would ask a question. It went on. Eventually, to his apparent chagrin, his friends came over. Seeing that Katie was in the mood to continue the conversation, I spent the rest of the evening allowing the rest of the guys to sit and talk. Allowing is a strong word. I ran them in circles.
It’s rare that you find an honest man. It’s even more rare to find an honest man in a bar.
The three guys that made up the main entertainment for the evening were funny, charming, slightly awkward, but genuine. And that means a lot.

It may not have been honest flattery but it certainly made for a comfortable evening full of fast-paced conversation with people who weren’t aware of the idea of the end game. I was also told I looked like I could hold my own in a bar fight, which is definitely not true but a sweet sentiment.
And Katie got asked to dinner.

I’ve got two rants today.

The first one is short and the second will take me all day if don’t stop myself.

Numero uno: Last night, I went down to Confluence Park behind REI to cross the fire dancing and drum circle business off my summer bucket list. It was definitely more crowded than I had expected it to be. I would guess that there were a little over a hundred people there. I’m glad we got there late, it wasn’t anything wildly exciting, but it was cool to watch the people who dared to perform swing fire around and I’ve always been a sucker for drumming.
With all of the hippies gathered around me, I was surprised to see the amount of litter that seemed to be accruing throughout the park. It annoyed me. First of all, the weekly summer gathering is a relatively un-minded event; I was actually quite surprised at the lack of police presence despite the population that was gathered there and the amount of weed I’m sure was being consumed. For that, everyone there should have been grateful for the privacy and the peace and should have been a little bit more respectful of the space.
Spilled beer isn’t a whole lot, but someone has to pick that litter up.
I drank beer, I walked to a trashcan and put the bottle in. I should have recycled it. I didn’t. But I didn’t leave it on the concrete steps so that there might have been the possibility that it would have gone into the river. I didn’t leave it in the dirt under the tree so that it could languish until cleaned up by someone whose job title most likely does not involve picking up the litter of disrespectful people who should have been happy to be left alone to get high or drunk or whatever or stay sober to watch fire dancing and listen to music.
I’m sure someone isn’t taking too kindly to that behavior.

Numero dos:

http://www.denverpost.com/frontpage/ci_15854873

Bruce Randolph, with parental consent, is giving out contraception and emergency contraception. This morning, I was listening to KS107.5 while flipping through radio stations on my way out to pick Mike up, and they were discussing the situation.
And one of the deejays said something about “daughters as sluts.” The female deejay tried to say something about it, but she didn’t put up a fight at all and let it go. So they continued to comment on it and I really didn’t appreciate it.
Pregnancy is a huge deal. Teen pregnancy is a bigger deal.
People calling girls who try to be proactive about protection and contraception “sluts” is ridiculous. It’s disrespect on a whole new level and it shows that there are still double standards in place as far as gender expectations go.
As a woman, I find it horrifying that should I want to protect myself from pregnancy, I might risk being labelled a whore. I think the girls who reach out to accept the contraception are making mature decisions and should be rewarded with respect and fair treatment.
For young girls today, the pressure to be sexually active is immense. While I’m not arguing that the pressure isn’t equally immense if not more so for young men, girls are hit with the inability to maintain the sexual habits that their male counterparts are allowed. And with the use of the word maintain, I mean that there are social stigmas attached to girls who wish to engage in sexual behavior. Society in this way reinforces the restrictions for women but glorifies young men who are able to attract larger numbers of sexual partners.
It’s annoying. And it needs to stop.
Young people are going to have sex. It’s a fact.
We can preach abstinence all we like, but I think knowing the facts and figures could be helpful as well. But when push comes to shove, availability of contraceptive methods such as condoms and birth control pills can help prevent pregnancy and the spread of sexually transmitted infections (STIs).
I read this article a few days ago and kept it open thinking it might be useful, and I’m linking to it below:
http://contexts.org/articles/summer-2010/is-hooking-up-bad-for-young-women/
It talks about reasons why many young people are forgoing relationships in favor of “hooking up,” which involves all the best parts of dating without any of the hassle. But once again, it’s women that are considered too weak to be able to engage in this particular behavior set. (While I’m not arguing that the “hooking up” is healthy, I think it’s interesting that women are pinpointed as not being able to handle the emotional consequences. Again, it’s the women engaging in behavior similar to their male counterparts yet being socially sanctioned for doing so.)
Here’s another article that’s not more than a blurb, but the pictures with it say a lot about the perpetuation of the Madonna/whore dichotomy (a popular theme for those of us who survived gender studies programs): http://thesocietypages.org/socimages/2010/08/19/sti-transmission-wives-whores-and-the-invisible-man/
The article discusses the ways in which men are removed from the equation, much as they are being done in the debate about contraception. All of the babies that result from teen pregnancies, well, any pregnancy, have fathers, an equal participant in the choice to engage in risky or unprotected sexual activity.
It’s not hard not to get pregnant.
But it does require effort on both sides. And for women who face pressure from boyfriends or partners who might refuse to use a condom, having a second choice is not a bad thing. The availability of protection and in some cases, emergency contraception is a positive statement about sexuality, something that is so often pushed under the rug. (Again, the refusal to use a condom should never be a part of any sexual equation and connotes something sinister about the intentions of the male or female who makes such a refusal. But it does happen. And many women aren’t confident enough about their sexuality at that point that they are able to speak out against it.)
I know that contrarians are going to argue that emergency contraception is just that and shouldn’t be regularly prescribed or used as birth control. I agree. But even those kids who are engaging in protected sex sometimes have accidents and the fear that results from those is a reminder of the consequences of engaging in such actions. Choosing emergency contraception does not cause an abortion to take place but can be a mature, responsible decision to continue the use of protection.

Either way, I think we need to normalize contraception, including neutralizing the way we converse about it. Women should never feel “demonized” for seeking out protection and shouldn’t have to listen to others say anything negative about those positive decisions. Shame on KS107.5 for not being dignified in their discussion of the story and shame on their female deejay for allowing the men to dominate the conversation and to neglect her interjection. Calling people “sluts” is not only a cheap shot but it shows a lack of respect (for women) and maturity. I can fully say I refuse to support a station that promotes commentary such as that.

Before we leave, it’s been insisted that we create a will.

My original thought was to just mess with everyone. I think that will take years, though, to figure out. I want to exact subtle revenge on people through my will, but I want it to be perfect. I want them to laugh when they figure out why they’ve been gifted what they’ve been gifted, and I want them to love me all the more for my horrid sense of humor.

The only problem seems to be that I have no earthly possessions to disperse and no real desire to be resuscitated past the logical points.

So here’s this, just in case the will is improperly notarized or something:

Resuscitate me, sort of. Wait long enough to make sure I’m really brain dead before you pull the plug. And I mean long enough. (Like three months, if it’s not too much to ask. Unless insurance won’t cover it and in that case, stop supporting my breathing and metabolizing of liquids as soon as the coverage stops. It’s not worth it if I’m not coming back.)  Donate all of my organs (at least the usable ones). Plastination (the Body Worlds thing) is not an option, don’t even think about it.

Power of attorney and such : Mom.

I keep joking with Mom that I’m going to give Cat to her, but in all honesty, I love my cat way too much for that to happen. Give him to someone who will love him, maybe Dad.

Simon can go to Madeline Hosanna, because she’ll adore him. (Mom’s name is on the title as well as mine, so maybe in the end, she’ll want to keep him.)

Send Hunter my Tarot cards, just to freak him out.

Make sure that my voodoo doll is always facing some sort of south, if possible, or a window. He’s particular about those things.

Don’t bury me with shoes or socks on. Seriously. I won’t be able to sleep. But do bury me with Buddy, my childhood Teddy bear (yes, the capitalization is proper).

Or, don’t bury me at all and spread my ashes in Chicago, by the lake, near the L tracks, on Lake Shore Drive, and at Red Rocks, in the cemetery there or somewhere in the mountains, and then downtown. Don’t have me compressed into jewelry.
There’s a catch to the ash thing and that’s the statue. I want a statue. Huge. (I mean, life size or better.) Of an angel that magically resembles me. She’s wearing a toga-like Greek dress and holding a book and a pen and smiling and has humongous wings. And she’s barefoot. And her hair is down and wild. That’s the only way you can cremate me. Give me a sweet statue with some strange quotes or life facts. I want people who see it to wonder who I was in real life and then Google me.

Give all of my possessions to people who need them. Give Grandma my rings, she knows how much they mean to me.

My diaries and writings all belong to Mom, who should do something with them. Don’t burn them.
She can have my Birkenstocks, too. But my mountain backpack should go somewhere wonderful.

Give Mike my cell phone, he’ll break his and need the extras. He’ll want my laptop, too.

Now for the particular stuff I’ll be quite upset if you don’t follow:

My funeral should be a party. Seriously. Two drink minimum. And then the speeches can begin. At first I thought it might be nice to have a posthumous roast, but then I decided I’d rather you all pretend I have no flaws and instead, give drunken speeches toasting my accomplishes (including my ability to use the English language correctly) – accomplishments, sorry, my adventures and my spirit. So I think everyone should have two strong drinks (at least, but if you have more don’t drive) and then tell funny, touching, or just plain beautiful stories about me. Obviously you’d be doing that anyway, it’s my funeral/wake/after party.  And wear black, or don’t. If you’re up to it, maybe it should be a fancy dress and/or costume party. But maybe not. Tears are hell on silk.

If it’s cheaper, feel free to buy my casket at Costco.

There. Done.
Will created, sort of. (I’m sure lawyers would look at this and laugh, but it’s here and it’s in my hand  – as much as typing from your blog can be considered in your own hand.)

Also, did you know that Mike is worth more than me on life insurance? How unfair is that?

If only…..

….a million different things.

Sometimes what is right and what we want are two separate things, and I believe that to define maturity might be defining the ability to understand and separate the two separate things.

And if not that, then what?
Is it all worth it in the end?
What if we aren’t supposed to pretend, and instead we’re supposed to tell the truth and go with what could be?

Ha, not at all. We can’t be.

But what is now is now and perhaps won’t ever shall be, but with life stretching seemingly long before me, I’m off to explore the great unknowns of heart, and mind, and soul. And I’ll come back complete and satisfied, a trail of lost and longing loves behind me, although I’ll be buoyed by my expanses of knowledge and experiences and the depths of my own emotions. I will have loved deeply and lost immensely, gained more than that and fallen deeply into fits of both melancholy and exuberance.

I will have lived.

I will have conquered the unconquerable, my own heart, and mind, and soul.  And then all will be well.

And whoever stands at the end of that contentment shall have me in all of my unconquerable glory.