High School Revisited

Just want to preface this entire blog post by saying it can be summed up in two words: Hot Mess.

So thanks to that modern wonder we call Facebook, I am "friends" with a couple of my old teachers as well as some of the kids I went to school with. Speaking of kids, does anyone else get surprised for a second when they see a picture of someone they haven't seen in almost 20 years and all of a sudden that person has boobs? No? Just me? Oh.

Anyway. So a former teacher of mine named Sara and I became Facebook friends, and right away it was weird. I was born in 1976. Sara's profile said she was born in 1972. That would mean that in 1992 when she was my marketing teacher (and also the art and Spanish teacher - it was a very tiny school), while I was 15, she was 19.

I happen to think it's lame to lie about your age to people. It's one thing to lie to get into a club or to get drinks, but another to lie about it regularly to all who (rudely) inquire. If you think you can get away with telling people you're 38 when you're really 46 then you should be PROUD to say you're 46. Then it'll be more impressive that you look so good, rather than people looking at you and thinking you look like a haggard 38.

So while I know that just because someone's a teacher it doesn't mean they're by any stretch a perfect person, something about Sara seems off. Firstly, she seems obsessed with finding this girl Jen who is my age and was a student there when I was. When I initially accepted her friend request, I clicked on Sara's wall and she'd pretty much "friended" every kid in my year that she could find, and had asked ALL of us if we were in touch with Jen.

Of course sometimes teachers and students form bonds or whatever, in fact just yesterday heard about a teacher mentoring a little boy whose parents are going through a divorce, but this set off a warning bell in my head.

The other thing I noticed about Sara is that she spoke out negatively against all police officers. When I looked at other comments she'd made they were all in a negative tone. While Sara was my teacher she was married, and she's been divorced for quite a while. I saw her ask a girl I graduated with, who now lives in Madrid, to hook her up with a Spanish man. I don't feel like I'm adequately describing Sara, but she just seems like an angry person now, which is very different from who she used to be.

Jen was found. Jen and I became Facebook friends. It turns out that right after high school graduation, she lived out here in San Francisco for a while. I am not clear on what she has done with her life since then. If she went to college. How she's been supporting herself. Why she seems to have zero relationship with the little sister I remember her having. Why every status update seems to be an extreme problem involving police, violence, hospitals, courtrooms, restraints.

Jen told me she wants to come out to the Bay Area, she has a cousin in Oakland. She got an offer to intern at a record company in San Diego (which is not in the Bay Area). I was not clear if this was a paid internship or not, but when I asked Jen if she's aiming to be involved in the music business for a career, she explained that she wants to work in prisons.

She made a joke about sleeping on my couch the first time we chatted. I haven't had a couch in over a year. I told her this. It was clear what wasn't being said. She was asking if she could stay with me. I was saying no. My guess is everyone who lives in a major city gets asked to host quite a bit, since hotel rates are higher there than in smaller areas.

Last night Jen called me shortly after 10pm. She's on the East Coast, so that's shortly after 1am her time. Told me she had HPV but is not contagious, in case I want to sleep with her (I hate when people think everyone who lives in SF is there because they're gay. I'm not gay, I just like it here). Told me she's getting a pap smear tomorrow. I said good luck. Told me about a future landlord she gave $1600 to, who was supposed to renovate before she moved in. He hasn't renovated, she hasn't moved in, and he's had her money since the fall. Jen told me she has to get a lawyer; I told her she doesn't need a lawyer for small claims court.

Again last night she talked about coming out here. I (thought I) very clearly said that I do not live in a place where I can host people. Jen reminded me she'd been homeless, said she can sleep on the floor.

It was a two minute conversation. Jen told me she was at her best friend's bar, but they were closing and she had to go. Now, I am very logical and kind of anal and focused. If I call you, it's when I have time to give you all the attention in the world. I call you from a quiet place, so you'll be able to hear me, and won't feel like I'm distracted by whatever you hear going on in the background. I was a little confused as to why Jen was calling me when she couldn't really talk.

I was 17, I was not so great at asserting myself, at setting boundaries. This has changed a lot. Jen would be an idiot to come out here assuming she could stay with me, indefinitely. She's very smart, and understood what I was saying, even though I didn't flat-out say the word no. But she seems to have some steamroller qualities, and I could see her choosing to ignore what she doesn't want to hear.

Hot. Mess.

Reason 382 I Am a Terrible Person

There's been a little mystery going on at my apartment this month, and yesterday I realized a flaw in my logic each time I think about it. A big, racially stereotyped flaw. You see, I live in a very echo-y place. I live at one end of the hallway, and if someone coughs at the other end of the hallway, I can hear it. Between the echo-happy materials used in the construction, my super-sonic hearing, and the lack of insulation here, I know way more than I should. I know it's Wednesday sex time on Wednesday afternoons (changed from Sundays). I know when the Indian girls next door are home alone, because that's when they smoke in their bathroom. I know when the little Mexican girl next door is having a sleepover from hearing all their giggles through the wall (it's pretty cute). And I think I know that three little boys down the hall don't seem to have left this building since the new year.

I'm home most of the time. It costs $2 to get anywhere, so I mostly just walk to close places. I can do a loop of post office, bank, drugstore, library, supermarket and back home in an hour without lines. So when I'm not temping, I'm pretty much home all the time. It'd be hard to fathom that these boys happen to leave only when I do.

It was in the week of the New Year that I realized the sounds of three little boys had been constant for a few days. Figured they'd just moved in. Figured the sounds would die down when school started back up. Sure the baby would still be around, and maybe even the middle kid, but at least the oldest one would be out of the house for a good chunk of time each day. Not so.

No, these three boys do not go to school. They speak a mixture of Spanish and English (not that they speak Spanglish, but that they switch back and forth). There are only studios and one-bedroom apartments in this building, so there are at least four people living in these boys' home, but I think it's five. I've heard a male voice soothing the baby when he's crying late at night, and a female voice screaming at all the boys to knock it off when their playing turns to fighting.

From hearing these boys constantly, I've sussed out that youngest is around two, the middle is around four or five, and the oldest boy - the one who taunts and mimics the others when they cry which makes them cry harder - could be anywhere from about six to nine. Six is a stretch, judging from his style of talk, but it's possible.

Then yesterday I had an epiphany! Maybe the oldest one is home-schooled! That would explain why he's home all day. This is where I become (yet again) a terrible person: I immediately dismissed the idea, thinking "these people don't homeschool!"

Promptly I felt ashamed, and tried to dissect my thought. Why not? What about these people makes them not the type to homeschool? They're poor? Lots of poor people homeschool. They're not white? Basically, yes. I honestly can't think of any people I've seen on tv, met in person, or read about who homeschool but are not white. It appears to me that people who homeschool are white. I'll just go stone myself to death now.

Around Christmastime there were two boys playing ball in the hallway one day when I was leaving. As I locked my door the older boy was crouched on the floor, tying his shoe. When I came home they were still in the hallway and as I walked past the older boy I told him, "Your shoe came untied again." He knelt down to fix his laces as I walked to my door. A half hour later I left my house a second time and the boys were still playing ball. The shoelace of the older one was again dragging on the floor. He saw me and immediately told his brother to hold the ball, and as I locked my door, I saw him struggling with his shoelace.

It became clear to me as I locked my second lock that he did not really know how to tie his shoe. When I asked if he'd like some help, he nodded, and I knelt down. As I tied I explained, asking the boy how old he was once I'd finished. "Nine," he admitted quietly. It was clear he knew he should know this skill. I didn't want to make him feel bad. "You'll get it if you practice," I told him. I wonder if these are two of the boys I am hearing all the time. If so, whoever is homeschooling them may want to add shoe-tying to what they're teaching.

It's not because they're not white. That's not why I think these boys are not homeschooled. I could easily expand my vision of People Who Homeschool to include all races and nationalities. No, more than race, it's attitude. The people I've seen who homeschool are really, really into it. Whether or not they're misguided or unequipped to be doing it, they have a clear sense of what they aim to teach their kids.

That apartment with the three kids? The acoustics are such that I can hear the mother when she's quietly talking to her friend on the phone late at night. Her window may be open, but mine is closed. If mine were open I would know exactly what they talked about (if we were language-compatible, that is). My point is, I can hear really well what's going on there (reason 828 I really need a job), and I do NOT hear any adult talking to this boys in any sort of teaching style. It's just not happening.

So I will remain mystified and intrigued by these three boys who are always home, always playing and fighting. I will hope they are somehow getting an education. Lastly, I hope that nine year old who can't tie his shoes either learns soon, or has parents who will get him velcro sneakers so he doesn't get teased by his friends.

*Does it count as people watching if you can't actually see them?

Funny That Blanca (o) Means White

I need an up-to-date typing test to submit with my resume for a job. There are these career development centers for people on unemployment, and yesterday I called one, to see if they charge for a typing test. They don't. I asked if I could come in first thing this morning. Blanca, the woman on the phone, told me they'd already filled all the appointments for today, and the rest of this week. I explained that because this is a job with the City that I'm applying for, there's a deadline.

Blanca put me on hold. When she came back she said that if I could get there 15 minutes before they open today at 9am, she would open early for me so I could rush in, take my test, and get out. I agreed and thanked her. It was such a nice thing to do that it made me wish I could bring her a giftcard to a coffee shop or something.

When I started out this morning the heatwave had lifted. The cool air felt great as I waited for the bus. And waited. It was eight minutes behind schedule. Inside my head, I kept urging the bus driver to go faster. At my stop I rushed off the bus and tried to get my bearings and figure out where in the Mission the career place was. Down the block I saw a long line of people waiting outside. Hoping that was it, I walked towards them. It was.

There were security guards all over the place. All the people were standing in line. If I stood at the back of the line I wouldn't even get in until after 9am, let alone 15 minutes earlier. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to go up to each person in line and somehow tell them, "I'm not cutting you," even though I was. I walked in and said I had an 8:45 appointment with Blanca.

The woman asked me my name and then told me Blanca wasn't there yet, but I should go wait at the tables for her. The tables were next to a desk with a "Computer Center" sign. I told the guy manning the desk that I was there to see Blanca. He told me she'd be right out. I pulled out my book to read and people-watch. There were tons of people there. I was kind of shocked. I shouldn't have been - everyone knows it's hard to find a job.

I was the only white person in the entire place. An old Chinese lady was in line for something, and a security guard went over and told her to stop singing loudly. A group of girls sat down at a table near me, and pulled out McDonalds and started eating. It smelled both good and gross all at the same time.

Blanca came over and introduced herself to me. She's either in her late 60's or has lived a hard life and is in her early 60's. She was wearing grandma shoes with an ankle-length skirt that had fringes cut up to the knees. Blanca led me over to a computer and set me up to take the typing test. I did the one-minute warmup, and then the computer crapped out. When I told Blanca, she pointed to a man talking to a pregnant girl, and told me he might be able to fix the computer. Not to let him leave. So I sat, alone except for the two of them, and pretended not to listen to their conversation.

I pretended not to listen as the pregnant girl talked about her daughter, and how she didn't like the relative doing childcare. How she was putting in all these hours volunteering someplace, but was frustrated. Frustrated because she came home at the end of the day exhausted, and still had to take care of her daughter and listen to her parents and she isn't even getting paid very much. They sat very close - knees almost touching - and the man did active listening.

Blanca came back, said something to me that I didn't catch, and then walked out of the room. After a couple of seconds, I realized she'd said vamanos, so I grabbed my bag and hurried to catch up. There was a second computer room and she set me up to take my typing test there.

A black lady who worked there walked in and told me it might get loud and she was sorry, but I should just do my best to concentrate. We agreed it was warm in the room, and I said surely it wasn't as bad as yesterday. The McDonald's girls walked in, along with some other girls, and I tuned them out while I did the warmup to the typing test again. In less than sixty seconds I felt myself slide into that zone, where your mind checks out and your body takes over.

As I started the five-minute test, the one that would count, I started listening to the girls behind me as they talked with the black lady. First she criticized them for arriving late. Then she reminded them they were supposed to be dressed for work and while she knew it was very hot, spaghetti-strap tank tops and short shorts were not appropriate. I typed, they talked. She asked one girl if she'd talked to another woman who wasn't there.

The girl said no, not yet. A second girl asked why the first girl was going to talk to that woman. Apparently you can apply to get your police record cleared, to make getting a job easier. Who knew you'd learn such important information during a typing test?

When my five minutes were up, I told the program to print my results, and I started out of the room to go find Blanca. The black lady was surprised. "You leavin' already?" I explained it was just a five-minute test. We said goodbye. As I walked out I heard one of the girls say, "I bet she already has a real good job."

Phoebe Prince

So this girl in Massachusetts, a 15 year-old ninth grader, hung herself. Supposedly it was because of relentless bullying. I think we can all agree bullying is terrible. Wrong.

But what defines bullying? If you say anything that's mean is that bullying? So if a girl in the lunchroom asks if her outfit looks good and you say, "No, it makes you look like a fat cow," then have you just bullied her? Lots of people use the "but I was just being honest" stance as an excuse for being mean. If you bully someone, does that make you a bully? I really think all these questions need answers.

I bullied a girl in high school. For about a week. She did something trivially unfair to me, it flipped my rage switch, and I went on the attack. A teacher I liked pulled me aside and told me to cut it out and get ahold of myself. I felt ashamed, and stopped. The following year, after I'd graduated, I went back to the school to visit. The girl had changed, gotten tougher, marched right up and confronted me about what I'd done. I told her she was right, apologized to her sincerely, and she nodded, satisfied. Over a decade later she friended me on Facebook, and one night when she told me another classmate of ours had died in a car accident, I brought it up. Apologized again. She said she couldn't remember that happening. I don't know if she was lying or not, but either way she's clearly moved past it.

Honestly? If she'd killed herself over it, I never would have gotten over it. I remember everything - I remember friends' outfits from second grade, how your sister met her husband, everything. Luckily, she didn't kill herself. Luckily in the above instance, because I'd been bullied in the past, when I got called out on my actions felt guilty to know exactly how horribly I'd been making the girl feel.

An investigative reporter named Emily Bazelon has been writing for Slate about the Phoebe Prince suicide. She doesn't think Phoebe Prince was relentlessly bullied. Not by six kids. The district attorney is going after the six kids full force. Elizabeth Scheibel seems to have a history of being (what I think is) needlessly harsh on teenage defendants. If you know me, you know I'm pretty black and white on breaking the law. Unless you were literally saving a life, breaking the law is always wrong. That's how I feel. It's fair to get in trouble when you break the law. Elizabeth Scheibel seems to think you should get in more trouble than I do for breaking it though.

There's no question Phoebe Prince was what you might call "a troubled girl." She'd tried to commit suicide before, she was a cutter, etc. Girl had problems.

Several years ago, when I'd first moved to San Francisco, I was walking somewhere during my lunch hour when a homeless man made a rude comment to me about my body, the skirt I was wearing. Basically, he called me fat. To be honest I haven't worn a skirt since, so I can't say it didn't affect me. At the time, I don't think I told anyone, didn't cry, or do anything. Except never wear a skirt again. Adults are better at letting cruel comments roll off their backs than teenagers are.

As a kid I thought being an adult would be great, because adults were mature. They wouldn't bully or be cruel for the sake of hurting someone. Oh, how very wrong I was. I was shocked and so disappointed to find out that mean kids often just turn into mean adults.

It seems like at Phoebe's high school bullying was a bigger problem than at other schools. Is Phoebe responsible for all her own actions? Is the school responsible since she knew the kids who bullied her through school? People in this country like to blame. People like things to be somebody's fault. I think it's everyone's fault and nobody's fault, all at the same time. Is Phoebe responsible for deciding to kill herself? Not really, since she was mentally unstable. Are the kids who bullied her responsible for Phoebe killing herself? If you believe that if you aren't part of the solution then you're part of the problem, then yes, to some degree they are. Is the school responsible for not doing enough to protect Phoebe? Emily Bazelon seems to think so. So does Elizabeth Scheibel, the district attorney, which is why she went after the six kids so harshly.

The whole thing is a mess, and sad. Very little happened to the kids who bullied me in public school. Despite the fact that I graduated in 1994, it has stayed with me. I am hyper-aware of when I am not wanted somewhere. Nobody ever wanted to be associated with me in any way, and because of that to this day I am still hesitant to call anyone my friend, lest it embarrass them. Yes, I am a sensitive snowflake.

I definitely think bullying needs to be taken seriously in schools. At the same time, kids need to be reminded that high school is all bullshit. That they can and should move on from it, and I think kids should be encouraged to have a lot of things going on outside of school, in places where they are interacting with peers they get along with. Poor Phoebe Prince. And Poor Phoebe Prince's little sister, who not only has to deal with her parent's separation and moving to a different country, but now also has to deal with her big sister having killed herself.

I Know Someone Who DIED From That

Many, many moons ago, I worked with a girl who had a tramp stamp in memory of her father who'd died. She also had a teeny, tiny stud in her nose, and her boyfriend had one undesended ball (I'm more mature now, and if you tell me these things about your boyfriend or husband I no longer want to giggle each time I see them, because I immediately try to forget I know the second after you give me this type of information). She also had diabetes. Once, the manager for our department went up to this girl and asked her, right in front of my desk, what she should if she "has a diabetes attack" and so the girl launched into a two minute explanation of some needle that she kept in a certain spot in her desk and where to jab it into her body and how to do it so the insulin would get in. I was on the phone at the time and didn't hear the details, but clearly remember the look of shock on the girl's face when the manager wrinkled her nose and said, "Oh, that's way too complicated, never mind," and walked off.

Recently someone on Twitter raged a few times about people being ignorant when it comes to diabetes. Which made me think, "Umm ... I'm pretty ignorant. Shit, have I said anything offensive about diabetes lately?"

I always sympathize with the ignorant asshole - probably because so often it's me - and this time came up with a way to do something about it. I asked said Twitter-er if she'd like to do a guest post (!) on my blog about her diabetes. And now you will know what not to say when someone tells you they have diabetes. (Thanks to my Twitter Friend for doing this, and apologies for font issues - there was a lot of cutting and pasting going on.)

1. What kind of diabetes do you have? The kind that's kept in check by diet, or do you need insulin shots?

I'm a type I diabetic. It's the kind that they used to call Juvenile diabetes, or insulin-dependent diabetes, but neither of those names are used too frequently anymore. I take insulin, but in my case, instead of taking shots, I have an insulin pump. That's a small computer, about the size of a cell phone, that's attached to me by a teensy little catheter. It holds a reservoir of insulin and the computer gives me a very low dose constantly. When I eat or if my blood glucose is high, I give myself extra insulin. It's a lot more convenient than having to give myself shots. I've also found it's a lot less conspicuous than having to pull out syringes and insulin if I want to have a snack. A syringe tends to draw a lot of attention and curiosity, and that curiosity is often negative.

2. If you have to walk around with needles, how do you get on airplanes with them? Do you carry a doctor's note?

That's exactly what I do, actually. Before I fly, I have my doctor write a letter stating that I am diabetic and must travel with syringes, insulin, my pump, and monitoring equipment on my person. When I go through security, I put everything but my pump and continuous glucose monitoring system in a clear plastic bag so that it's all visible, and I inform the security agent that I'm traveling with medical equipment. Then when I go through the metal detector, I turn my pump off, detach it (which is not at all a big deal), let them X-ray it, then turn it back on and re-attach it. Not a big deal, as it turns out--I thought it would be the first time I flew, but the screeners have seen it all a million times before. Yeah, yeah, lady. Just make sure your laptop is out. What's interesting to me is that I do have to turn off and disconnect my continuous glucose monitoring system, which is a little plastic radio transmitter, when I fly. You know how they tell you to turn off laptops, cell phones, and other devices before the plane takes off? It's just like that.

3. If we know someone with diabetes, should we not offer them sweets?

Oh, wow. That's really a great question. Diabetes treatment has changed so much over the last 20 years, even over the last 10, and most of us can (and do) occasionally indulge without it being a big deal. My first inclination is absolutely to say yes, I do think you should, especially if they're a part of a group and you're offering something sweet to everyone--dessert, for example. Offering doesn't quite have the impact of, say, offering a drink to someone who's in recovery for alcohol abuse or something like that, which is fraught with all kinds of...I don't know. Part of this disease is learning to make good choices for ourselves, and while you might feel a little awkward about offering, we're just fine with saying no thanks if we need to. What's so much worse for us is feeling singled out or excluded for being diabetic. I know a diabetic who was diagnosed at 8. The year after she was diagnosed, at her birthday party, her mother baked a birthday cake, served everyone else but her, and then handed her a bowl of apple slices.

4. What's a good thing to say (other than 'Oh....' or 'Hey, my dad's cousin died of that in the 80's') when someone tells you they have diabetes?

One of the things we struggle with is finding a way to tell people that isn't a total downer or conversation-ender. Most of the time, people notice my insulin pump and ask me about it. People love technology and are curious about things they've never seen before, and I would much rather answer questions about it than hear about how someone's grandmother went blind and had all her toes amputated. Although I'm sorry to hear about that grandmother and her toes, I already got the memo that diabetes is scary. You wouldn't believe some of the things I've heard people say. My all-time favorite is still, "But you're not that fat!" Oooh, thanks, but I've got the other kind. Anyway, I guess the best answer to your question is probably to ask a question. Ask them if they're type I or II. Ask them when they were diagnosed. Most diabetics would much rather answer a question or two--we're always impressed to hear that someone knows something--than hear about the multitude of awful ways we could die.

5. What should people avoid saying?

Ohhh, the internet. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, and I've been told that I can cure diabetes with cinnamon, cayenne pepper, a vegetarian diet, a vegan diet, the power of prayer, and roots from a certain tree that grows in the U.S. Southwest. Let me just say this: there is no cure for diabetes, and people who try to convince you otherwise are, without fail, pursuing an agenda that has nothing to do with you or your health. I would avoid any sentence that starts out "I've heard you can cure diabetes with..." The implication is that we're fools to still be suffering from the condition, because there's a cure. Believe me, there's not a cure. With nearly 25,000,000 Americans now suffering from diabetes, the word would be out by now.

6. What assumptions do people make about you when they find out you have diabetes?

The usual: I must not be very active or energetic. My health must be very fragile. I'm not crazy about the assumption that someone knows all about me just based on the fact that they have a cursory knowledge of the facts of diabetes. Probably the assumption that I like the least is one that, surprisingly, often comes from medical professionals, and that's that I don't know anything about diabetes. My experience is that many doctors who aren't specifically diabetes experts don't know as much as I do. I had a baby last summer, and when I was pregnant, I had an excellent obstetrician who freely admitted he didn't know a great deal about diabetes. He was terrific about asking questions about things like my insulin pump, how often I checked my blood glucose and what range I tried to keep it in, some of the little foibles of the disease. He was eager to work with me, he said, because my health was very good and pregnant diabetics who are in good shape tend to have fewer complications than those who aren't, and even fewer than some non-diabetics, because we are so knowledgeable about how our body works.

7. How old were you when you got it? Do your kids have it? Are your kids more likely to get diabetes because you have it?

I was diagnosed at 25, in the summer of 2001. I got the flu the winter before, and my doctors think that the virus caused my immune system to mistake the cells that produce insulin for invaders, attack, and kill them. I have no family history of diabetes--nobody in my family has it. Neither of my children have it, and they're not any more likely to get it than any other kid with non-diabetic parents. I'm not genetically predisposed to diabetes--it's just one of those crazy fluke things that happen sometimes. My kids are actually at higher risk for type II diabetes--my mother-in-law has it--than type I. Of course, I'm a mom, which makes me crazy and paranoid, so I went through a terrifying couple of days when my son was 2 1/2, when he began demanding a bottle of water to take to bed with him at night, resulting in a sopping wet bed every morning. I had him tested for diabetes, and he tested negative, but still. Scary stuff.

8. Does diabetes get research funding like cancer? Is somebody working on a cure? Is there such a thing as a cure?

Diabetes does get research funding similar to cancer. The American Diabetes Association, the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation, and the Federal government are among those who are working like mad for a cure. Like with all autoimmune diseases, it's tough to find a strategy to selectively turn off the immune system--to tell it to stop attacking one specific cell. There's a really exciting development in Australia: a nanovaccine that does exactly that in mice. It could potentially lead to a human vaccine against type I diabetes. There's also been some promising research into islet cell transplant, or taking insulin-producing cells from a donor and transplanting them--but in the long term, that hasn't worked very well. Transplant patients have to take huge doses of steroids in order to suppress the immune system, and one of the effects of steroids is that they raise blood glucose levels. So basically, in order to make insulin, they transplant these cells, which ultimately raise the demand for insulin so much that they basically end up exhausting the cells that they've transplanted. But 100 years ago, diabetes was basically a fatal, acute illness--there was no real effective treatment at all. So the bell curve that research is on says that we're close to a cure. That'll be a good day.

9. What do you wish people knew/understood about you and/or diabetes that they (we?) don't?

We don't all look like Wilford Brimley. Diabetics are an exceptionally diverse group of people, many of whom take great care of themselves and are proactive about their health. Despite that diversity, we almost universally hate being told what diabetics are "like." It's like trying to describe what people with curly hair are like--just way too broad a category to accurately form a generalization. Diabetes is serious, but it doesn't have to occupy every corner of your life. I give it the same effort as I do raising my kids or maintaining my relationship with my husband, and I do it as much for them as I do for myself. As much as I'd like to see a cure in my lifetime, my assumption is that there won't be one, and so I try to take as good care of myself today as I did the day I was diagnosed.

10. Since you have a catheter in you all the time, do you worry about people bumping into you? Can you not play contact sports because of it? (Do you have to be careful when you're having sex because of it?)

I don't worry too much about people bumping into me. The catheter, which is the part that's actually under my skin, is a little tiny flexible plastic tube that's about the diameter of a thread and less than half an inch long. It's taped in place right near my hip and most of the time I can't feel it, The bigger problem is the tubing--if I don't have it all tucked under my clothes, I've done things like catch it on door knobs and that kind of thing. I've never accidentally pulled it out that way, but it hurts, mostly because of the tape. I have yanked out the catheter pulling my pants on or off a couple of times, which is also not that much fun. I usually forget to carry an extra infusion set and inserter with me if we're just out for the day, so if I do that, it means we have to turn around and go home.

As far as sports, it tends to be a personal preference, but in general it's fine to wear the pump during. They make holsters and that kind of thing, similar to those armbands people use for their iPods, that go around the arm or the leg, which keep it pretty close. Some people will reduce the amount of insulin they get while they're playing sports or exercising, because the activity can cause blood glucose to drop. On the other hand, you don't want to be off the pump for more than an hour or so, because you'll start to become hyperglycemic unless you're really exercising hard. The pump is water-resistant (one of the very first things I ever did with mine was to accidentally drop it in the toilet) but not waterproof, so I take it off when I swim or shower--it's got a little detach mechanism right at the skin, which leaves this little grommet stuck in my side. And as far as sex goes, usually I take it off. It's not that it freaks my husband out, he's adorable and surprisingly non-squeamish about it. It's just that we tend to get tangled up in the tubing or roll over on the pump. It doesn't hurt the pump, but I've ended up with a pump-shaped bruise on my butt before.

Resurfacing

There were two middle schools in my town, and then just one high school. Richie came from the other middle school, not mine, and he hadn't been popular. He hadn't been unpopular, but he hadn't been one of the popular kids. When he arrived in ninth grade, everyone from my middle school thought he was outrageously cute and funny and nice, and we all promptly got a crush on Richie. When the girls from the other middle school realized what a diamond they'd had, they immediately all developed crushes on Richie too. He got voted school treasurer. Richie became popular overnight. For his birthday, my friend took him into the woods behind the school to give him a birthday blowjob.

Richie had two secrets though. He began working at the supermarket where I worked and that's how we became friends. One day my father drove me to work to pick up my check and Richie was there for the same reason. As he pretended to put money into the candy box he winked at me as he took a handful of candy. Exiting the office, paycheck in hand, we headed out of the supermarket together. It was pouring, and it came out that Richie was about to walk home. He lived in the opposite direction from my house.

But somehow, knowing it would be okay, I breezily said, "Oh, my dad will drive you home," and Richie followed me to the car. Leaning in, I introduced my father to him, explained he lived down near McDonalds, and asked if we could take him home so he wouldn't have to walk.

It was less than a five minute drive, and I don't remember what was talked about, except that Richie called my father sir, and I giggled (hey, I was 14, these things were funny then).

One day when we were working, I asked Richie if I could call him Dick. "Only once," he responded. I promised him I'd save the honor for a special occasion in that case.

In tenth grade I worked at Haagen Dazs. A kid named Michael also worked there, and he'd gone to Richie's middle school. He told me Richie's first secret, that his family was very poor. I never would have guessed. Partially because we lived in this upper-middle class area and barely anyone was poor, and partially because Richie and his older sister never gave any indication of being poor.

As Michael and I worked together longer, he told me Richie's second secret, which I found much more fascinating than the first - that Richie was a dancer. At some point when Richie and I were alone, I made some joke that involved some ballet words, and he laughed, but then looked at me like, "how did you know I'd know what that meant?"

Richie was actually popular enough that he could have told people he danced and not had his stock go down, but as far as I know he never did. Towards the end of 10th grade I left the high school, never to see Richie again.

About two years after graduating, I was in a composition course at a local college and ran into a boy named Andy from high school. Andy and I caught up during breaks and he told me Richie's life had gone downhill since we'd last been in touch. He'd developed a drug problem. A pretty severe one, that caused him to wind up in jail, in rehab, in a world of trouble.

Sadly, Andy showed up to class one day and told me he'd gone to the dentist for a routine checkup to be told he had a huge tumor in his jaw, and after that day I never saw him again.

Then I was working as a teacher's aide in the same high school I'd left in 10th grade, and who pops up in one of my classes, but Richie's little sister? When she walked in and told me her name I asked if Richie was her brother, and a horrible look came over her face as she confirmed. What Andy had told me came rushing back and I never brought up Richie to her again.

A few months ago, a girl I grew up with posted a photo on Facebook (where else?) that included Richie and I sent her a message, asking after him. She knew nothing. Two days ago, Richie's big sister commented on that photo. I followed her link, and there's Richie, alive and in his 30's.

There's a weird pallor to his skin now, and the light I remember being in his eyes is gone, even in pictures with family where he's clearly trying to present as happy. He just looks ... not like the same boy in ninth grade. The boy who was overwhelmed and flattered to have his own Sally Field moment, and totally ran with it and rocked it.

Loose Ends (In My Brain)

- So remember Christian Siriano, on Project Runway? You know, the young gay guy with funky hair? Well, he has a boyfriend, Brad Walsh. I follow Brad on Twitter and read this morning that Christian would like to send some dresses to Michelle. Obama. You know, that woman whose husband is going to be POTUS? Yeah, her. If anyone has a direct connection...

- While I am beyond elated that you know, yes we did, I am having a hard time believing it's really real. I am more excited about this than I was at going to Disney for the first time. And that's not just because I ran into my sixth-grade teacher at Sea World while holding three dead fish to go feed to the dolphins.

- With this elation comes worry. I'm scared of an assassination attempt. Can we donate money to the Secret Service?

- In his acceptance speech, Obama told his daughters he will get them a puppy when they move to the White House. Mr. Obama, please consider me for all your dog-sitting needs. I can provide references.

- Lastly, I'd like to throw out a big what the fuck regarding California's Prop 8. I'm very disappointed. While I know it is not a gracious thing to insult those who think differently, I can't help but feel that people who voted YES must be stupid. I don't say this as an insult, though I know it is one, I say it because I feel surely those people must just not understand what they're saying.

People are BORN gay. It's not a choice. You come out (literally) into the world, and it's just ... inside you. It's not a decision, but an inevitability. Kind of like with hair color. Can you imagine if the bible said anyone with blonde hair should not be allowed to marry? It would be laughed at, and everyone would stand around agreeing that while the bible has some interesting things, clearly it has not kept up with the times. Except not everyone would, and that's just one more example of why I think critical thinking should be taught in public schools.

There Are No Little Birdies

When the Golden Boy and I were kids, we'd try to get away with having not done something by claiming we did not know. Ignorance is no excuse for breaking the law, and that was true in the Yogurt household as well. To this day I can still see my father standing over my brother in the kitchen yelling, "No little birdie is going to come and tap you on the shoulder..."

I think our parents wanted us to be assertive. Not with them of course, because that was not allowed. But out in the world. With other people. In other situations.

This evening 9am and I were standing in the kitchen eating blueberries as he told me the following story. He is deferring law school loan payments for a while, and to do that he needed to fill out forms through the financial aid office at his school. While he was waiting for his appointment he flipped through a brochure that's meant for prospective law students.

9am says the brochure boasts that 59% of all students receive scholarships. The minimum scholarship given out was $12k for each year (3) of school. 9am also says that his LSAT score was in the 80th% for his year. He worked as a paid associate the summer he was a 1L, and worked "for the god damn United Nations" the summer he was a 2L. Thus, he believes, he should have gotten some scholarships.

I inquired, "Did you apply for any?" The answer I received?

"Well no. But enough of my professors knew of my accomplishments that they could have recommended me..."

Dude. Are you fucking kidding me?! THERE'S NO LITTLE BIRDIE! I don't dispute that it's impressive to work for the UN. I don't dispute that there are very few 1L's who get associate positions in law firms. However.

Being in the 80th percentile for LSAT grades at a school that's like third or lower tier is really not all that impressive. It's certainly not impressive enough that a scholarship birdie is going to personally come crap money on your shoulder.

In a way, this kind of reminds me of those people who are out of work and say, "Because I believe, God is going to provide." I listen to them and think, "God *DID* provide, you idiot! God provided you with the ability to use your brain, which you're supposed to utilize in order to create a resume. God provided you with the gift of communication, which you're supposed to use to talk to prospective employers. God provided the tools, not the results the tools can provide."

Why did 9am not apply for any scholarships? He has no reason. In that case, I do not think he deserved one. You might say, "Don't be so harsh. Maybe he's the first in his family to go to grad school. Maybe he just didn't know." To which I say, "Maybe, except maybe not. Both his parents have PhDs, and are professors, he has as many doctors in his family as most jewish people do, and he himself already has a masters degree."

When my parents gave their birdie speech, the way they delivered it always made me think everyone else knew already the birdie didn't exist. I guess no little birdie tapped 9am on the shoulder to let him know there are no little birdies.

So, to anyone reading this blog who is about to attend college or grad school: there are many scholarships out there. You must apply for them in order to be considered. The scholarships will not come to you.

Pass the Passport, Maybe (Thanks J)

My new boyroommate has done a lot of traveling. Mostly within Central Europe. He was shocked to find out I've never left the country. I'm always shocked to hear that other people have. Guess I have no sense of wanderlust, because a part of me is absolutely baffled at what would inspire someone to go someplace where they won't understand things. Of course, I come from a different place than most, since I want to understand much more than I'm able, whereas I suppose most people find a way to understand anything they want.

Yet a tiny part of me is curious. I think it's from living in San Francisco, a major city. In South Florida, nobody travels. I mean it - you honeymoon in Disney and then take all your vacations in Key West. If you have relatives there, you go to New York once every few years, but you hate how busy and crowded and dirty it is. But in major cities, people go places. Like to other major cities.

I'm tempted. My friend told me to start out slow - go someplace where they speak English, at least. Like London. I might be able to do London. I read British Glamour. I like the song Here Comes the Sun. I ate a scone once. I even know "chips" are really french fries.

Except, remember on The Real World, London how hard it was to figure out the front door of their apartment? And what if I got lost trying to take the Tube somewhere, and the people there were like the kids I went to high school with, and gave me wrong directions? Plus, I don't really like fish all that much.

Okay, not London. What about Paris? Every girl is supposed to want to go to Paris, right? I could be like Sabrina, and come back beautiful. I could acquire a cute, French accent. Supposedly they teach English in the schools there. So what if there are no anti-smoking laws?

Well, here's what I imagine.

1. I would arrive.

2. Day one - would not leave hotel due to not being able to figure out fancy lock on hotel door. Convince myself that's okay, because I can "adjust to time difference" and finish reading airplane book and magazines.

3. Day two - would figure out lock and venture around lobby of hotel. Spend at least four hours people-watching in lobby before going back to room, depressed that I can not understand what anyone is saying. Before going inside room, cry in hallway for half hour at not being able to figure out lock on door from outside. Console myself with thoughts that the people walking by who give me strange looks will never see me again, so it does not matter that I cried in front of them.

4. Days three and four - stay in hotel room, scarred from last time I left. Call my brother and cry about how hard it is to be somewhere I don't understand what's going on around me and how much I hate myself for not being able to learn new languages and learning disabilities really suck.

5. Day five - embarrassed that I'll be leaving soon and will have to face Americans who will ask what I did in foreign country and don't want to have to admit "nothing," force myself to leave hotel. After writing out on two pieces of hotel stationery diagram of door lock, complete with step by step instructions.

6. Walk three blocks to left of hotel. Find cafe. Say, in my best, yet awful and improper French, "I'm sorry, I do not speak French; do you speak English please?" only to have people laugh at me and ignore my request for water. Cry.

7. Try to walk three blocks to my right to get back to hotel, only to find myself in very seedy area, sun has set, and now I am hopelessly lost. Pull out diagram of door lock to see if stationery has hotel phone number, only to realize I can not figure out how to use pay phone. Spend night sitting in a curb. Pigeons poop on my head multiple times. When I get back to my hotel, find I've lost my precious diagram and spend 20 minutes outside door trying to unlock it.

8. Finally get inside and to to take shower to wash off bird poop, which has congealed into my hair overnight. Can't figure out complicated shower, wash hair in sink. Lay on bed and cry myself to sleep.

9. Arrive back in the States after being fleeced by a cab in Paris to take me to airport, where I am most proud that I got it down to a solid ten minutes to work the lock on my hotel door. Frantically run to Borders to write down sightseeing places in Paris to lie about to people when they ask where I went while abroad.

It might not be as bad as that, but keep in mind that I don't drink wine or coffee, and don't like cheese. You can survive on Evian for a few days straight, right? And they'll let pb&j sandwiches through customs, right?

Happy Martin Luther King Day Everybody!

Many, many things to discuss, and once again, can't decide which one to write about now. I am fighting the urge to blast you with pictures of the cutest dog ever, who I have the honor of dog-sitting this week. But I will resist, lest you live in San Francisco and start stalking her. Her real owners would be confused if they kept getting flowers from a "secret admirer."

We could discuss that the neighborhood flower shop is a money laundering front for the Mob, and I could even include a picture of their cute polka dot flower pots, but since I have nothing to go on other than my gut, we won't.

Since there was no work today, I had the opportunity to watch some daytime television, which I happily took advantage of (the mountain).

Fuck it. I was going to talk about something I saw on tv, but screw that. Children, today we are discussing prepositions and prepositional phrases. Why? Because they stress me the fuck out.

Everyone knows by second grade that you're not supposed to start a sentence with "and" or "but." It wasn't until 7th grade that I learned about the wonderful world of prepositions. They have been driving me crazy since. Why is it SO EASY to end a sentence with a preposition? Why? WHY?

(And) Any time you start a sentence with the word "and," like in this self-referential one, you can just drop the "and," and the sentence can still stand with dignity. (But) The same can not be said of a preposition. If your sentence ends with a preposition and you want to fix it, you are forced to move the ENTIRE prepositional phrase to another location within the sentence. Thus, "Since there was no work today, I had the opportunity to watch some daytime television, which I happily took advantage of (the mountain)." has to become "Since there was no work today, I happily took advantage of the opportunity to watch some daytime television."

I do not speak any other languages, unless you count New York Driver as a language. Which you shouldn't for these purposes, as NY Driver only has body parts, rather than parts of speech. But for those of you smarties who do, please tell me: is writing in foreign languages as difficult as writing in English? Because I think I need a nap now.

As You Wish - Part 1

Silliyak - I haven't started up fucking yoga again yet - I don't have the money for it these days. I am sorry you had to walk out early from your class - sometimes it's hard to breathe in compassion for yourself and out compassion for others without laughing. And Scotty, I applaud your individuality.

I need to do this in installments. There's so much to this story that I'm not even sure where to begin. So I'm going to start with disclaimers. There are people of different races in this story, and I'm going to mention some of them. I thought about leaving it out, but decided that for one person race was a very big issue. So race is in. Let me save you some time - you can google until it snows in Miami - you'll never find the people I'm talking about.

The Beginning:

I'd been out of work for over six months, almost a year, really, and was desperate to start working. Not just for the money, although that was a big part of it, but for the sanity working brings me. Letting me feel connected to the world and all that.

So when I was offered $10K less than what I'd had at my last job, I took it anyway. Because it was better than nothing. It was so little that I didn't sign up for health insurance, because I couldn't afford to have the company taking the $35 out of my paycheck on a regular basis. That's how close I was cutting it, and how desperate I'd become.

It was the legal department of a company - not a law firm, and there were three lawyers, and two secretaries. One of the people I'm calling a lawyer was really a kid who had finished law school but hadn't passed the bar his first time around and was about to re-take it.

One of the first things I was told when I started working was that I needed to stay each day until the job was done. My response was, "Great, I love overtime!" Oh no. Poor Green, you must have misunderstood. There's no overtime. "But I'm non-exempt. Legally I qualify for overtime for any work over 40 hours. That's the law." Sorry dear, we don't pay our other legal secretaries that way, so we can't pay you that way.

I needed this job. And quite frankly, things are kind of corrupt out in South Florida - you just accept that and deal with it. So I said okay, and told myself I simply wouldn't work outside of my normal hours.

A few months in, the kid re-took the bar and passed. He was given a bonus, something insulting, like $250, and a raise to less than $50,000. He'd just found out when I happened by him one day, and that's the only reason he told me. I understood what he wasn't saying, and brought it out in the open. "Well, it's been great knowing you!" He nodded and asked me not to say anything. I didn't say anything. I'd have left also.

When he gave his notice, my boss, one below general counsel for the company, was
furious. He pulled me into his office to rant. "After all I did for him! I can't believe he's doing this to me! What a shit!" Remy took everything personally. He believed there were tons of office politics at our company, and believed any time someone wouldn't do something for him, it was politics, and personal, all wrapped into one rejection. Remy had taken and passed three different bars, and just because I thought it'd be funny, I got him admitted to practice in D.C. (as long as you're admitted and in good standing in any state, D.C. will take you).

Remy came to work at 10:30 or 11 a.m. every day. Wearing old jeans, old sneakers, and even older metal band t-shirts. We never saw clients. I wore khakis and a t-shirt and sneakers every day to work. Remy didn't mind the low pay because he appreciated being able to dress like an extra in Wayne's World. He was into music, and thought of working for a law firm as selling out. He believed he was a good guy who was always willing to help people.

Remy pushed to get a new attorney to replace the kid who was leaving. Meanwhile, the company fired people left and right for nonperformance. For looking at porn from work computers. For coming to work late repeatedly. Whatever the issue was. The unofficial policy of the company was that we never paid unemployment. Any time someone was fired for cause and filed unemployment, we fought it.

That meant the legal department, not the HR department, got involved. There'd
be a phone call between the unemployment office, the person who got fired, and a lawyer. Except, the general counsel wanted Remy to handle this. And these phone calls were first thing in the morning, like 9:15.

When we'd first get the notice, I'd contact HR and ask them to send me the personnel file on the employee who'd been fired. I'd go through the file, creating our defense. The six times in two weeks that the person had come to work late without calling first, the eight times they simply hadn't shown up at all in one month, all the warnings they'd gotten - both verbal and then written.

And then an attorney was supposed to call in to defend the company from having
to pay unemployment. But Remy didn't want to get to work early. And the kid had left for a better paying job. And hadn't been replaced yet. So Remy told me to call. And we got in a closed-door fight over this. Previously, when I worked in New York, I once got hauled into a partner's office because they overheard me say to someone, "I'm not a lawyer and I can't give you legal advice. But if I were you, I'd call a lawyer." I was given a stern talking-to about what constituted legal advice. Advising someone they needed a lawyer fell under that category. Ever since I have always been VERY careful about making it clear that I am not a lawyer, that I can't give legal advice. But in Florida I needed my job. So I called in. And let them believe I was an attorney.

Even though I could have gotten in a lot of trouble. And even though when that trouble came down, I knew the company would deny ever telling me to do what I'd done and would fire me. And then, of course, deny me unemployment. Even though the company could lose part, if not all, of their insurance. Even though an attorney can be disbarred for doing this. I did it. Remy never told me to "win" or anything, or actually, to lie. We're going back a few years, but I think the way he phrased it was, "Tell them you're calling from the legal department on behalf of Company." He would go over all the information I'd pulled from the personnel files, and we'd talk about what was strong evidence against the former employee that made it clear they hadn't been fulfilling their obligations. So that'd be ... legal strategy. Yeah.

Honestly, I'd never make it through law school if I tried. Hell, whether or not I could even make it through college to get a Bachelor's is negotiable. But I am telling you, I won... I won't say cases, because we weren't in Court, but I argued shit and WON.
Just sayin.

Remy finally got HR to approve his ad for a new attorney, and one was posted online. And the resumes poured in. Guess who got to review them? So I'd take a few hundred
resumes, go into an empty conference room, and pour through resumes, throwing out any that had typos. Throwing out any with cover letters indicating the attorney wanted six figures.

I was looking for a Type. This was not a position any normal attorney was going to want. I needed some old guy who'd moved to Florida to retire, but found that talking about doctors and playing golf wasn't enough for him, and wanted to work again. Or some female lawyer who'd had a kid and decided quality time with a kid was more important than money, but didn't want to step out of the game completely. Basically, I needed to find someone who wasn't applying because they were hoping for a fat salary.

I kept finding people, Remy kept interviewing and rejecting them. He wasn't clicking with anybody. I even found him people who'd graduated from his law school, but nothing. We kept getting HR to put the ad up over and over. I spent more and more time in the conference room making piles of resumes.

And then I found Frank. He'd just graduated from law school in New England, hadn't yet passed the bar, and wanted a job. Within a month Frank was hired. Less than a month after that, he was making me narrow my eyes at him as he'd walk away from me.

I Am, Therefore I Deserve (It's a Long One)

"You should treat yourself." "You work hard; you deserve it!"

I hear these phrases, and phrases like them, quite often. I don't get it. Obviously, I understand what's being said, but I don't get it.

A few months ago, during a big sale, I bought a coat at Macy's for over $100. It's beautiful, it's functional, and it's classic. I'll wear it for years. I know this. And yet. I was so overwhelmed at the idea of spending over $100 on one piece of clothing that I had to ask my brother to come look at it, to confirm its quality, and that it looked good on me.

I've never bought shoes at Payless. I've never bought clothes at WalMart. Sometimes I'll buy Nick & Nora pajamas at Target. I'm not cheap. I'm just not rich. And, if I do say so myself, I'm a tiny bit money-savvy. While I don't know how to play the stock market, I do understand the basic concepts of marketing, advertising, saving, and credit cards.

I used to work for a sub-prime mortgage company. In the legal department, but still. They hired me for my previous experience at having worked in the foreclosure department of a real estate law firm in New York. Do you know what sub-prime mortgages are? They're mortgages for people who have such bad credit that they can't get mortgages. Their interest rates are very high. Often, they tell people who want a mortgage to buy a house "We'll give you one sub-prime mortgage at this high interest rate, and a second sub-prime mortgage at this higher interest rate."

When I worked at that real estate law firm I still lived with my parents. I didn't understand what a foreclosure was exactly. So my boss sat down with me for an hour and explained. A note is a promise to pay (the mortgage). A deed says who owns the house. When you don't pay your monthly mortgage payment for three months, the mortgage company sends all your information to a law firm they have a contract with (normally in the state your house is in) and ask them to begin foreclosure proceedings.

If anyone's interested (let me know), I can go into further details about how to get out of foreclosure (and how to avoid it), but that's not the point of this post, or the above paragraph. The point is, after working at that law firm for a few months I came to the conclusion that "any idiot can get a mortgage!"

As a 22 year-old earning less than $35,000 a year, I probably could have gotten a mortgage. Because mortgage companies would give a mortgage to almost anyone - or so it seemed to me. I went back to my boss. "If it's so easy to get a mortgage, why shouldn't I go run out and get one and buy myself a house?" She smiled at me. "Because you wouldn't be able to afford the mortgage payments and would wind up in foreclosure, and ultimately, with no house and bad credit." Oh. And so I learned.

I realize not everyone has the opportunity to sit down with the head partner of a law firm and pick their brain like I did. I know I was lucky, am lucky, to have so much access to lots of free legal advice. At this point, I don't even know how many times I've gotten free legal advice from the various attorneys I've worked with.

But doesn't everyone know somebody smarter than they are? Let's assume you're college educated, because I think the majority of my six blog readers are. Wouldn't you think someone who's college educated would have taken at least one college course in accounting or finance or some sort of math that teaches people not to buy what they can't afford? Hell, I knew that before even graduating from high school, and I was almost left back in 10th grade!

Granted, I was raised by two fiscally responsible college educated parents. And yes, I know that you can get away with not taking too many credits in math. So maybe you didn't take an accounting or finance class in college. But don't you read? And after you read, don't you think?

I read everything from Newsweek to Cosmo and in both magazines I've read articles explaining the basics of money management. And while I don't pay cash for every single purchase (one suggestion I've read) or keep my credit cards iced in my freezer next to the Ben & Jerry's (another suggestion I've read for impulsive spenders), I think before I purchase.

I think about if I really need it, or just want it. If it goes with what I already have. If I already have one just likeit. How often I'll use it. If I have space for it. If I'll be over wanting it two weeks from getting it home. And often, I walk away without buying.

When I moved earlier this year, after everything was unpacked, put away, boxes were thrown out, I took myself to get a manicure, pedicure, and blow-out. Not because "I deserved it" but because I wanted it, could afford it, and would appreciate it. What I deserved after moving and unpacking was the right, the privlege, of living in my new apartment. That's all.

When I work hard at work, I deserve my paycheck. That's all. I get all bent out of shape when people are talking about money they'll be earning, and they count a bonus they expect to be getting. Think about the word. Bonus. An extra. Something not owed to you. Thus, something you should not count on. Maybe if you work in sales and negotiated a bonus if you reach or exceed your target, then you can count on a bonus. But even then, it's dangerous.

In New Hampshire there is a strip of road in North Conway that has outlet stores, one of them a Coach outlet. Each time we went to New Hampshire we'd spend a day at the outlets, and one of the last stores we'd hit was Coach, for my mother. My mother is not what you'd call a quick-decider, and by the end of the day, we were all short on patience while my mother shopped and looked and touched all the Coach bags. The last time we went, I remember picking up a wallet, feeling the softness of the leather, seeing the price was over $100, and laughing as I put the wallet back. Who would spend so much money on a wallet? Why would anyone need such an expensive thing to hold the money they'll use to spend on other expensive things?

My mother has a Coach bag. I do not. And I'm okay with that. The majority of things I own are two steps above cheap. I own Levis. I bought a pair a few months after moving to San Francisco, and after wearing them and deciding they work for me, I bought three more, donating the five-year old jeans I'd been wearing. That was three years ago, and I recently bought two pairs of jeans from Old Navy. For $14 each, which was why I was willing to buy Old Navy jeans.

Do I deserve 7 For All Mankind jeans? Or Paper Denim and Cloth jeans? You know what? No. No, I don't. Because I wouldn't appreciate them the way they're meant to be appreciated. And I wouldn't look the way people are meant to look in them. And no, I'm not saying that fat people don't deserve nice things, because they do. At least, just as much as skinny people do.

I recently had a conversation with a friend about the difference between need and want. There was something she wanted, and kept saying she needed it. When I questioned her, she explained that she wanted it so badly, and having it made her so happy and she was so very unhappy without it, that she did in fact need it. I disagreed, but went with her to make her purchase.

It's another one of those Differences Between West Coasters and East Coasters I've found. My friend sees being happy as a need. I used to know a couple who, when whipping out their credit card to pay for something, would say "Future [Name] will pay for this." They're from CA too.

I understand. I don't relate, but I understand. I can't fully enjoy something now if Future Green will be crying when the credit card bill comes and it can't be paid in full. I hate debt, and owing.

Lately I've done a lot of interviews, which means sitting around, catching bits of other people's interviews. My competition. And even though it's happened frequently, I can't help being surprised when in response to the "Why should I hire you?" question, the person has responded with "Because I'm a good person and I deserve it."

Okay and we wonder why other countries hate us and think we're spoiled? How are people raising children to think that if they recycle and say thank you once in a while, good things will come to them in life? Like jobs, and expensive purses. If you're a good person, you know what I think you deserve? To walk around in life secure in the knowledge that you're a good person! Personal satisfaction when you go to bed at night that you were the best person you could be. That's it. The world does not owe you.

If it did, I'd be rich, what with all the door-holding I do for people. Hell, just this morning I made an old man smile, and let not one, but two people get on the bus before me. Surely for that I deserve lots of blog hits. And lunch! I should treat myself to a fancy lunch. Maybe at Tadich or somewhere else expensive. Because I deserve it.

Whatcha Thinkin Bout?

Does everyone else think they're "done"? Like, you're as good as you'll get? That you're as open-minded as you need/want to be? That you know enough about a big enough variety of things for life?

My great-grandmother used to say you should learn something new every day. I can't say that I do, though yesterday I read three books and the day before I learned that I like bbq'd shrimp on sticks, but I definitely think I have many more miles to go before I sleep.

Thank goodness I have my world map shower curtain to help me along on my path to learning new things. Maybe after I've learned where everything is located, I'll move on to the periodic table of elements shower curtain. Who needs school when you have shower curtains?

Growing up, my mother was constantly telling me to look things up. I hated looking things up, so I avoided it whenever possible. Now I question multiple things on a daily basis.

Just yesterday, I questioned Trixie about those Aryian Nation people. There were some on the Tyra show saying they "don't mind" other races aside from white existing, but they should all go back to the countries they belong in. As in, Tyra should "go back to" Africa, even though she personally, was born in California.

Anyway, these white power people were talking about this in relation to inter-racial relationships, and saying God didn't intend for people to mix races. My question is, if God didn't intend that, then why did s/he allow people to be able to be attracted to other races? Why wouldn't God have created people to only be attracted to those in their own race?

Trixie had no answer. Today I'm questioning why my brand new power cord is not working very well. What are you questioning these days?

First Grade

I'm almost positive that on my first day of first grade, I wore my white turtleneck with ladybugs on it with the corduroy red skirt and my hated blue buckle shoes. Alana was in my class. Laurie was across the hall in another class, and I was sad I wasn't there with her. Her teacher seemed nicer than mine. A very nice girl named Nancy (not Nancy the Druggie from high school) was in my class, and she used to wear dark blue Jordache jeans almost every day. Nancy was not Jewish, had an older brother named James, and was very skinny with stick straight brown hair and bangs. I loved her hair. I wanted to be skinny like she was.

I felt like I didn't do very well in first grade. We were given seven or eight dittos every day, which I found boring, plus one of which was ALWAYS a cut-and-paste. I didn't have good eye-hand coordination when it came to the Elmer's, and hated to be dirty. Thus, I was always one of the last people still at their desks working, while everyone else was playing. My mother told me they actually pulled me out of class to find out if I got in trouble if I went home dirty in an "Is this kid being beaten at home" kind of way, because I was so anti-glue. I still hate glue. Even Gluesticks.

The desks in first grade were set up in a horseshoe, and inside the horseshoe there were three rows of desks. I sat on the outside of the horseshoe, near the door. I had a crush on a boy named Matthew. A very, very big crush. My love was unrequited however, because he liked Alana.

The summer before kindergarten started, my mother taught me how to read. We didn't quite go to the library every day, but it felt close. I have clear memories of sitting on the couch in the living room yelling into the kitchen where my parents were, "Daddy, what does T-H-E spell, again?"

All in all, first grade kind of sucked. My teacher was angry and mean and yelled a lot. I was scared of her and hated her.

It was a very big deal who we sat next to at lunch. I always wanted to sit next to Alana. So did a girl named Lisa. I think Alana liked Lisa better than she liked me, but I still liked Lisa just fine.

There was a boy named Chris who sat at our lunch table, and nobody liked him. All I remember about him was that I thought of him as being messy and dirty, in a shirt-untucked, dirty fingernails, messy hair kind of way. We used to chase each other around in the lunchroom a lot, and one day Alana ran past me, tapping me on the arm, yelling, 'Chris-touch!" At first I didn't even understand what she was saying. I just knew it was bad to have and I should get rid of it.

Then it became clear. Chris, or something of his, had touched Alana. She could only get rid of his "contamination" by passing on The Touch. If your fingers were crossed when someone tried to pass you Chris-touch, you were immune. Now, I can see how cruel that game was, and how horrible Chris must have felt. Then, as a five and six-year old, I just wanted to give away the Chris-touch to somebody else, lest I get lumped in as being as undesirable as he was. Long Island is a cruel place to grow up.

Every day after we got back to the classroom from recess, we had "rest time" and were supposed to put our heads on our desks and stay quiet. One by one, we were allowed to go to the back of the classroom to get a drink from the water fountain. There was a girl named Lynne who would fall asleep during rest time, and people would laugh at her.If we were good throughout the week, on Fridays our teacher would make popcorn for the class. We NEVER got it.

I can't remember if it was every day or once a week, but a different kid was allowed to go to the front of the room and read to the class. That kid was also allowed to pick another kid as a "helper" in case they got stuck on any hard words. The day it was my turn to read to the class, my teacher reminded me about picking a helper, and I told her I didn't need one. Which was true - I really DID know how to read. I think she thought I was being obnoxious, and I felt she disliked me even more after that day.

One day after school I went to Alana's house, which I thought was much bigger and fancier than my house. Her older brother Michael also had a friend over - Jill's older brother Jared. Alana and I went into the basement and played with a machine that spun paper around while we poured different colored paints onto it. As we went upstairs to Alana's bedroom, her mother called out from somewhere that Alana's silver was drying on her bathroom counter. Huh? A first grader has silver? And her own bathroom? Anyway.

Alana and I got in an argument while we were in her room, and she called me an asshole and said she was locking me in her bedroom. It was the first time I'd heard the word asshole. I told her she couldn't lock me in from the outside, she insisted she could, and Alana closed the door from the outside. When I opened the unlocked-from-the-outside door and looked down the hallway, Alana was nowhere to be found. I wandered downstairs to the den and sat on the ottoman, where Michael and Jared were playing Atari. Michael was nice and made me feel comfortable, and I told him Alana had called me an asshole and I wanted to go home.

When my father came to pick me up, Alana and I pretended nothing had gone wrong - I don't know why. We went down to the basement to get my paper with the paints on it, and it was still wet. With our fathers standing in the entryway, I accidentally dropped the paper face-down on the polished floors. I was MORTIFIED. One of the fathers suggested I leave my painting there to dry and Alana could bring it to school for me. I wanted to apologize about the floor, but couldn't get the words out, and we left. Alana never gave me that painting.

At some point that year, I got in a fight with Alana, got very VERY angry at her, and near the back of our classroom I scratched her down her arm. VERY hard. To be honest, I shocked myself a little bit with how deep that scratch went. Alana's arm bled. I don't remember what our fight was about, but think it had something to do with Jennifer - the girl who lived around the block from me. Of course I was forced to apologize, and Alana was told to accept my apology, but nothing was ever the same after that. We'd eventually be friendly, but never friends again.

Another thing that happened in first grade was that on the day before a week's vacation started, I got nauseous. It was right before we were supposed to go to gym, and the whole class was standing in line in the hallway. I said to Alana, "I think I'm going to throw up" right before puking right there in line. After being sent to the nurse, my mother came and picked me up. When my father got home from work I was laying on the loveseat in the den watching The Young and the Restless with my mother. We were leaving that day for New Hampshire (or maybe MA) and I thought I might have ruined the trip by getting sick. But it was determined my puke was a fluke and we left on time.

In first grade I was very involved in gymnastics after school. I didn't feel like I was very good at it, but maybe I just had gymnastics coaches with high expectations and I picked up on that. At the very least, I was averagely good for my age. Oh screw it, my roundoffs were perfect. So you can imagine my mother's surprise when she got a call from the school saying they wanted to put me in Special Gym. It wasn't the gym class for the retarded kids, but just one step above that - an extra gym class for the kids who were just ... less than coordinated, shall we say.

My mother's response was a very polite Whatchu talkin' bout, Willis? They claimed I couldn't even walk on a balance beam. My mother assured them I could. There was a bit more back and forth I wasn't aware of at the time, and my mother finally figured out the problem. Apparently all first graders got tested for Special Gym. Apparently the gym teachers presented the test as a game of playing Circus. Apparently I was not down with playing Circus.

My mother came to the school, told me I had to prove to the gym teachers I was capable of walking on the balance beam, and so I hopped on up, and danced my way from one end to the other. Maybe I threw in a cartwheel or something. My mother, giving her best "Told ya so!" look, confirmed that I would NOT be going to Special Gym, and left the school.

These days it's called Shoprite, but back then it was at Foodtown that I had the horrifying and unfortunate experience of running into my teacher. At the supermarket. Food shopping. Outside of school, where she belonged at all times, whether or not school was in session. My mother was so nice to my teacher, and it bothered me - didn't she understand that I hated this woman? That she screamed at kids and made them cry? But of course, I couldn't say anything in front of her. Plus, the sheer shock at seeing her in a place where regular people go - it blew me away. My mother claimed that "teachers are people too" but in my six-year-old brain that did NOT mean they should be shopping at the supermarket!

Update on the Vagina Issue (Not Mine)

It seems Richard Leprine, the principal who suspended students for daring to say the word "vagina" out loud, has umm... suspended the suspension he gave three girls.

Mandy

(Amanda, this is it.)

I first became aware of Mandy some time in middle school. She was a year behind me, and was way beyond not popular. While I was in middle school, Champion sweatshirts exploded onto the Long Island scene. You were supposed to wear your Champion sweatshirt over a turtleneck.

The outfit went like this:
turtleneck
Champion college sweatshirt
sweatpants, with the ankles either pushed up right below the knees, or twisted (out, not in) at the ankle
baggy socks, with the elastic ankles of the sweatpants resting above the socks, and the bottom layer of the baggy socks resting just below the highest part of the Keds
Keds

During the warmer months you could get away with wearing a polo shirt underneath your Champion sweatshirt instead of the turtleneck. I used to wear a white polo my dad had given me, that had some emblem from his company under my sweatshirt.

I had a hot pink Champion, an aqua one, and a peach one. The first two were cheap Champions, and didn't fit the way the sweatshirts were meant to. The peach one fit perfectly, but it was, you know, peach. Later on I got my brother's college Champion, which I think was North Carolina, but I can't be sure. I'm just sure it was black. Then after that I got his old red one, which I liked a lot.

Mandy had a few Champion sweatshirts too. I only remember a red one specifically. She only had the cheap ones, and I think her mother must not have read the label and put hers in the dryer on high, because Mandy's sweatshirts were always too small. They always accentuated her flabbiness.

In the late 80's/early 90's, oversized was in, and nothing else would do. Somehow, Mandy never got the memo, and she showed up most days in a form-fitting Champion sweatshirt. Mandy was not just fat. She was fat in a disproportionate way. Mandy also had permanently red cheeks. She was clumsy. She also, because she got picked on so often, for anything, got flustered very easily.

Yeah, Mandy was very unpopular. She was the type to remind the teacher they forgot to give the class homework. The type to laugh at other people's inside jokes that she didn't get. Mandy also followed rules, in an effort to be viewed as .... I don't know what. Even my mother who is a total stickler for rules, has been known to tell me "That's bullshit" when a rule is ridiculous. It's my mother who taught me that when driving, safety comes before laws.

I can't remember how long it took, but a while after I switched to the private high school towards the end of 10th grade, Mandy switched over there too. This meant not only did I have to ride the tard cart to my school that was several school districts away, but I had to be on a bus with Mandy. A small bus, that didn't leave much room for getting away from her. It's hard to explain what exactly was so annoying about Mandy that made me feel like she deserved to be treated so badly. Probably because it's been over a dozen years since I've seen her. But I will say right now that as badly as I was teased in school, Mandy was so annoying that I felt she deserved to be treated horribly. (Why yes, I AM a terrible person.)

Though I don't remember the cause for it, I do recall a rule being instituted that parents were supposed to wait with students while they were waiting for the tard cart to come in the mornings. My mother is not a morning person - she likes to sleep in. Plus, I was in 11th grade, and she knew damn well I was capable of walking out of the house and locking the door when the bus arrived, without her help or supervision. The first morning the rule was in effect, my mother sat on the couch in the den with me. Tard cart came, I headed out, and my mother was finished following that rule for the rest of time.

Mandy's mom, on the other hand, was not that kind of mother. Not only did Mandy's mother wait with her, but she waited OUTSIDE, in full view of all of us. Each morning, Mandy's mother would stand on the driveway with Mandy. We were all surprised she didn't make it worse by kissing Mandy goodbye in front of us. Now I think "poor Mandy; how humiliating" but at the time I wondered if Mandy's mom was wearing a matching, poorly-fitted Champion under her coat.

I think it was that Mandy tried to involve herself in conversations she wasn't invited to join. If Nicole asked me what time it was, Mandy would answer. "Thanks, Information Central." And that's how we started referring to Mandy as 411. Nicole, Caryn, Kimber, Alayne, Maureen and I would all sit near the back of the tard cart, with the Chrises - Chris the Little Deaf Kid, Chris the Angry Druggie, and Chris the Hot Druggie.

Mandy would sit up front near Marge, our grumpy bus driver. Nancy, the Nice Druggie would sometimes sit with us, and sometimes sit with Chris the Angry Druggie when they had Druggie Issues to discuss. Chris the Hot Druggie would either sleep or chat with us - he could share in our gossip even though we went to different schools, because his cousin Heather went to our school.

Mandy would listen to our conversations and continually interject. Some of us were meaner to her than others. Kimber was shy and quiet - she wouldn't give Mandy a verbal smackdown. But she'd give her the Glare of Death when Mandy was getting on her nerves. Kim would be telling me how she'd fooled around with her neighbor Scott, who was her boyfriend's best friend, and Mandy would lean in and say "Do you think Scott will tell Andy?" Out would come the Glare of Death.

One winter we had an especially crazy snowstorm and I was so determined not to fall walking down my driveway to the tard cart with people watching, that I'd start heading down to the curb early, lest I fall on my ass in front of everyone. Mandy did not have the same plan I did. You know she totally fell on her ass, right as she got in front of the bus. You KNOW I loved seeing people fall (I'm laughing even as I type this) as much then as I do now. I can not even begin to imagine how difficult it was for Mandy to get on the bus, with all of us hysterically laughing at her. Even Marge was laughing.

At my private high school, there was a smoking room. That's right, it was a room where kids could go to smoke during Break or Lunch. There were tables and metal folding chairs. Usually I didn't hang out there, but sometimes I'd go in to talk with someone for a while. Mostly I'd sit on the floor with Alanna or on the benches in the hallway with Kimber or Jen Italian. Sometimes we'd hang out in the front office (which was also the nurse's office).

I was sitting indian style on the filing cabinet in the front office during lunch on the day that Mandy rushed in, rushed past me, and rushed straight into the bathroom. We all looked at each other as we listened to Mandy puking behind the closed door. When she walked out, we all looked at her in silence. Someone asked if she was okay. She said she was, and explained she'd just puked because of a dare.

Apparently Jill had dared her to smoke a cigarette. Mandy went on to explain that her father smoked, and she knew that smoking made her sick.

"Wait, then why'd you take the dare, knowing it would make you sick?"

Because it was a dare. (Stupid reason. But it was a logic I understood.)

"Well what'd you get for smoking?" Nothing.

"So you smoked, KNOWING it would make you sick, on a dare, despite not getting anything for it?"

Yes.

And that is the exact moment when any shred of respect I'd had for Mandy vanished into thin air (like a cloud of smoke except that would be too corny).

After graduating from high school I don't remember ever seeing Mandy ever again.

New York Can't Handle the Truth

Do we have to call them the Va-jay-jay Monologues now? I'm very disappointed in New York. I expect this from Florida. Really. I do.

But New York? Shame on you. Good for Megan Reback, Elan Stahl and Hannah Levinson. They were the perfect people to disobey the order to not use the word "vagina" since they are honor students. They should be proud to write about this suspension experience in their college essays.

Why Richard Leprine, principal of the school the girls attend, said the word was not appropriate, is beyond me. It seems like he claims there may have been children in the audience, and it wouldn't be appropriate for them to hear vagina said out loud. Umm... why?

Megan Reback claimed the youngest "children" were other high school students. I would love to hear what age Richard Leprine thinks it's appropriate for people to hear the word vagina. I'm just so disgusted by this attitude, that everything is taboo. Everything is only taboo because of people like Richard Leprine.

I expect better of New York. I hope for better from New York. New York, please don't make me hate you, and lack respect for you. You're not Florida. You don't have to be an asshole.