March 20, 2006
Selling Out: A Rambly Late Post
No, really, it's just my new haircut that makes the page look different to you. No? Ok, look. I'm not crazy about the new look either, and yes, I know, advertising's the devil's trade. It's just that I'm just kind of, well-- comment vous dites? ah, oui!-- poor. I'm not as indigent as I was a couple of months ago when I was out of work, but I'm still just barely scraping by, and things are about to get even tighter.
No, I'm not about to get fired again. Well, at least I hope not. God, I hope not. That would blow. I actually like the work I'm doing-- it's researchy work that I can do from home on my own schedule. Its not in a field I have intention of hoeing-- or whatever it is one does, metaphorically, in one's metaphoric field-- but that's ok. I dig up general-interest interesting info, which is pleasing enough in itself, and besides, I'm not interested in a jobby job job, if you know what I mean. Like, a career-track job. I just want work that will fund my writing time-- something that isn't so draining and time-consuming that I just want to smoke drugs and die when the I clock out. If I can use the time to learn about a world I don't spend a whole lot of time engaged with, all the better. Lately I have been under pressure from my employers to get the project done faster, which means working more hours. It's been cutting into my sleeping time (I'm too stupid/ stubborn to give up my writing time) and stressing me out. I'm going to have to step up and ask to cut back my hours. I hate to do this because I 1) feel like a shmoo and 2) need the money. But on the other hand, this was just the kind of job one takes to support things like writing and if it's stressing me out and cutting into my work time, then the situation probably needs to be reevaluated.
Oh, and writing. This is the best part of my life right now. I mean it always is-- I think this is how I know I'm going to always have to be writing. I just feel so useless when I'm not doing it. I'm so anxious all the time, worrying that I ought to be somewhere else, spending the time differently, living my life in a better way. When I'm writing well it's like I'm just doing what I'm supposed to be doing. It's just what I'm supposed to be doing (even when it's not. . . like, for instance, now. I should be working. Or sleeping. Or washing dishes.). I can't think of another activity I feel that way about.
Anyway, I've sort of gearing up to do more freelance writing over-- well, a long time-- but in the last month or so, I'd say steam has been gathering. That's another reason I want to cut back on my work hours. I know I was all about grad school last month. I still am, kind of. But I'm not going to be ready to apply until 2007 at the earliest. And I took my GREs in 2003 (don't ask)-- ha ha I am so going to have to take those again. It's not that I'm having any, like, material success as a writer. God, no. Nothing like that. Don't get the wrong idea. This is more just about how much time I'm doing to get my work out and how much I am putting out there and just being serious and committed and grown-up in the way I approach my work.
So in the meantime, I have bills to pay. If you happen to be planning on signing up for DSL with Speakeasy as your ISP (I actually do recommend them, esp. if you live in San Francisco and your alternative is crappy SBC), you can do me a kindness by clicking the Speakeasy button at the bottom of the page or telling them the refferal code. I'll get a credit towards my DSL. And if you happen to be signing up, or thinking about signing up for Backpack, it'd be neat if you'd use me as your referral. I spend $9 a month to keep my shit organized on that site, so a credit towards future bills would be cool, if it's no trouble to you and you happen to be signing up anyway. If I suddenly become filthy-- or even scuzzily-- rich I'll take down the ads.
I tried to make the ads as unobnoxious as possible, but if you have any suggestions, feel free to leave them. Also, tell me if you have any issues in browsers other than Safari, since I'm lazy as hell and don't bother to check. Or, if you just feel like calling me a money-grubbing Jew, greedy whore, etc., feel free.
Posted by hissycat at 03:09 AM | Comments (6)
March 07, 2006
Another Month, A Brand New Slut
Issue 46 of Bookslut is now up, including the reason I was a cranky bitch last week. Well, one of the reasons.
Posted by hissycat at 09:20 AM | Comments (4)
February 22, 2006
Excerpt From Letter Recently Sent To Thesis Advisor In Which I Seek His Advice On A Number Of Topics, Including Grad School
. . . Since 'leaving' my job, I had a streak of astoundingly awful luck: my boyfriend broke up with me and then I crashed my car. It was really a pretty awful time. I expressed my feelings by not showering or washing dishes, which probably did not help me feel any better, either, but then, I suppose that was part of the point. However, I'm doing so much better now, although I still very much miss my car. I'm even seeing this new guy who likes Scrabble and Gravity's Rainbow! Just like I do! Brett, my old boyfriend, is my friend again, which is excellent, and we mean to start up a Finnegan's Wake reading group with our friends like we had been planning before we split, and also I can borrow his car to go driving since the insurance wouldn't pay to fix mine!
I really miss being a student. I have fantasies about grad school, but I feel like I'm just getting my bearings in SF, and I don't want to leave yet. I wouldn't know where to call for Chinese, and I'd have to make all new friends-- that's very stressful, you know, just the thought of it is making me tense. And where would I go? It's true I'm not really writing piles of fiction so much these days, but I still like to think that I could, if I wanted to, even though I really probably can't, but either way, the idea of attending an MFA program is entirely unappealing, and attending an MFA program seems like the one reasonable thing I can do to be serious about fiction writing. And its probably a bad thing that I'm so put off by MFA-y situations anyway. It probably means I hate myself or want to sabotage myself because I can't stand other people who do what I am or want to be doing, which is writing, but to be fair, I was unfairly encouraged to believe that half the appeal of writing was that it could be done totally away from other people.
I also had the thought: Master's of Library Science! I'd be such an awesome librarian! I love libraries! That was when I was working at my job that I hated and I was trying to think of some kind of job that would give me health insurance that wouldn't make me want to kill myself. I came up with librarian. Useful, interesting and I could totally make it work with my fantasy life as a writer by working part-time at a library, getting benefits, and writing my books on the side. Maybe I'd even have to shelve my own book, who knows? Crazier things have happened!
But now I'm back to my original grad school fantasy, which is a reg'lar old PhD program in lit. That's what I miss. That's what I see myself enjoying the most. It's also the hardest to justify, since I don't feel strongly committed to going into academia once it's over. I feel strongly committed to living in San Francisco or New York, which I don't see changing unless I undergo a radical transformation brought on by trauma to the skull, or something of that nature. So I'd be putting in this enormous investment and then end up, six years later, in pretty much the same position I'm in now: underemployed, sending out (or not, as the case may be) resumes for jobs that, if I think about them, make me want to mash out my eyes with some kind of eye-sized mashing implement.
But then, if I'm just going to end up in the same place, is grad school such a terrible place to spend six or seven years of my life? A lot of people say, Yes! But I wonder-- are those people really as nerdy as me? Really? Maybe. I just don't know. I feel like I shouldn't want to go back to school so soon: I felt really ready for college to be over by the time it ended. Of course, it really wasn't that I was sick of academics as much as I was sick of being on a suburban campus as an undergraduate in a group living situation, no pets allowed, when the only kind of life I've ever wanted involves being left to myself in a studio apartment with books and a cat in a big city with good delivery.
I also feel a little guilty because I am not so successful at the non-school world. Even aside from the first job incident. Maybe this sounds silly seeing as how it's only been eight months since graduation, but I imagine myself, not going back to grad school, trudging through kind of mediocre jobs, just being kind of loserish for the rest of my life and dashing the promise my high school teachers said I was full of. Just kidding. No, but the mediocre jobs bit is true. The work that is available to me is not interesting. Most work, it seems, isn't interesting. Or at least, I don't find it interesting. I have zero interest in getting a job in publishing or advertising or whatever other industry English majors end up working in. I don't see myself having that kind of job ever, frankly. Not for me. I love writing the book reviews. I mean, I love writing fiction, but I'm also reasonable enough to recognize that I'll never be writing fiction for money. But I'm not too shabby at the book reviews. I plan on submitting reviews to more publications. I think I might have a fighting chance of eventually eking out some of the moneys with the writing the nonfiction and the book reviews. And that would be swell.
But I don't know, maybe grad school isn't incompatible with that kind of writing career. In fact, I was wondering actually if it might not help-- or at least provide me with several years of funding with more spare time than I'd otherwise have. I'm just rattling this stuff off out of my ass now-- I have no idea how the world works-- but I'm thinking maybe there's some kind of para-academic life I could make for myself more easily with a PhD than without. Like, you know what I want to do? Read little essays I wrote on NPR. And, like, write the kind of book reviews they print in the NYRB where you read a bunch of books and then think about them. Thinkedy think think. And then write an essay about some topic that the books deal with but that doesn't even begin to review the books until, like, the penultimate column. And maybe there are teachy things I could do that aren't as limiting lifestyle/ location-wise as being, you know, a serious University professor. I don't know I'm just making this stuff up I could be totally wrong! I know about how insanely difficult it is for English PhDs to get jobs, etc. But what if what I want to get into is magazine writing with maybe a somewhat academicky background? And if I had to work work in addition to writing, would a PhD be helpful? Could I teach, like, community college classes or adult education, part time? I imagine you still need a degree to teach those classes. Are those jobs still so difficult to get?
I suspect that if I could get into grad school, that's that kind of thing that I could, potentially, maybe, if squeeze my brain really really hard, and re-read everything twice, actually be pretty good at. I don't know that that's really the best reason to pursue literary studies, but last week my biggest accomplishment, which made my mother "so proud" that I've "come so far" was that I learned how to clean the bathroom . . .
Posted by hissycat at 06:37 PM | Comments (7947)
December 16, 2005
Another Measure To Ensure I Die In Grueling Poverty: A Literary Magazine!
See here, I made this Coming Soon! page today, and nobody's given me a dime.
Addenda:
Oh, shit, I totally spelled 'comining' wrong.
Addendada:
It's OK!
Posted by hissycat at 06:18 PM | Comments (4)
October 10, 2005
The Sober Writer: A Sign Of The Times; and, An Appeal To Dave Eggers
Upon arriving at work this morning I was delighted to find in my inbox an email from my dear friend Ameeth directing me to this NYTimes article about the growing trend of members-only writing centers in New York. These exclusive cozies, apparently, are popping up faster than pustules on the member of Paris Hilton's latest conquest. Accompanying the link was a message:
Pathetic. I hate new york. stab stab stab stab
Though I love that city of mine with all my filthy heart, I admit to on more than one occaision been known to sputter with far less eloquence than he sentiments of a similair nature. I appreciate as much as the next New Yorker the chance to rag on the "cool people" and "writers" and other boroughlings whose lives and successes I wish I had. (For the record, I am allowed to say offensive things about New York, for I am of New York, much like Woody Allen may say offensive things about the Jews, for he is of the Jews. If Ameeth had not lived in Brooklyn the past two years, earning his right to resent and detest every white boy with bed-raggled hair in Williamsburg, I would have not taken his comments in such good stride. Lest you think his Brooklyn years were not enough, rest assured he also attended Brown, which, in certain crucial ways, bears a more than passing resemblance to Brooklyn.)
My reaction to the article was twofold. As I'm always keen on a chance to vituperate any writer more successful than I (in this regard, my utter lack of success is truly a blessing, as I have a virtually infinite number of targets onto whom whom to direct my groundless ire), you can imagine how I must have snorted with gleeful scorn to read statements such as this:
"The concept of writers as drunken Hemingwayesque malcontents traveling the globe is over," Ms. Cecil said. "They see it as a job now, and they see themselves not as inspired alcoholics, or depressive psychopaths alone in a tenement. It's more mainstream. It's good kids going to M.F.A. programs, then looking for a place to find the kind of writerly community they had in grad school."
Fucking rat shit good kids! Fucking bitchy bitch fuck fart M.F.A. programs! Jesus fucking mainstream! Ugly fucking whore cock grad school! Somewhere, I know, Fran Lebowitz is rolling around atop her unmade pull-out couch, horrified to read that the belles lettres have sunk so low as to fall to the hands of the sober. If these sober, ambitious, M.F.A.-weilding goody goodies are the writers of the future, than I am frightened for what the future holds. If writers can't be lovable alcholoic malcontents, I ask you, who can? Or, to put it another way-- and this is where it really hurts-- if depressive, alcoholic, deranged psychopaths who live alone in filthy tenement apartments, who have only a cat and a bottle of gin for love, can't be writers, what can I be? People, I am running out of options. An unreliable malcontent just can't catch a break these days.
Oh, and I almost threw up when the doyenne of Paragraph compared her quill club to a gym:
Ms. Parisi compares writers' rooms to gyms. In both, a large group of people share the same equipment. And, paying for membership helps writers take their commitment to writing seriously, she said, and gets them "off of the couch" and onto the literary StairMaster. . . And like exercise buffs, the writers who use these spaces need to be self-motivated and disciplined.
Egads-- "literary" and "StairMaster" are two words that do not belong together! Oh, somebody say a prayer to Jean Rhys, beg pardon from Oscar Wilde! Dorothy Parker weeps angel's tears at the thought that "writers" have become like "excercise buffs." With things such as they are one can hardly summon up the appropriate degree of horror at the lack of sexual goings-ons amongst members. It is a grim truth that when alcoholism leaves, it takes sexual debauchery with it.
And yet-- and yet-- And yet there is the other fold of my twofold reaction, which is this: I want to be let in the club. One writer quoted describes the communality of working in one these spaces as "parallel play, like toddlers in a sandbox." How delightful, I say, how appealing! That is perfect for me! I loathe human interaction and frighten myself! I need a place to go that is full of people who don't expect me to speak or smile back! "When you write at home, there's a lot of distraction. . . You want to go clean out the fridge, or tweeze your eyebrows," or, if you are me, pick your toes, "but when you go to a space to write, that's what you do." All that unholy Swedish furniture and track lighting would not only increase my productivity but impart a clean, modern birghtness and simplicity to every aspect of my life, I am sure of it.
So please, Dave Eggers, if you are listening, when you or yours decide open up one of these writers' clubs in SF-- and I know you will, because that's just the sort of thing you would do-- please, please let me in. I am sure you could find room for one alcoholic malcontent. I can be the club's kitschy, fashionably-obslete mascot. I'll sit at the door in my fashoinably-obsolete get-up of sweat-stained t-shirts, jeans I picked up off the floor, and underwear that should have been changed two days ago, I'll sit there with my fashionably-obsolete accessoriess: a copy of Ulysses and a bottle gin and let my forehead crash noisily onto a typewriter. Everyone will look up with an expression of ironic bemusement. I will be the source of much amusement! You clever young upstarts can laugh and laugh as I barf through the tears and I will oblige and drink all the more. I will blink back at you with my reddened psychotic eyes and I will not know whether your hearty laughs are ironic or sincere. And you will love me.
Posted by hissycat at 07:56 PM | Comments (94) | TrackBack
September 22, 2005
Office Joy
There was a brief moment yesterday when my paycheck arrived that I thought, 'Ok, I can do this, I can work here. I'll just work harder and focus, because, really, this is fine. Oh, and health insurance.'
But no. I have to get out of here. I really need to start looking for something else.
The window in my hamster cage faces the courtyard where, at least once a week, there is a picnic/ pizza/ buffet thing to which I am never invited. I mean, I think these people are my co-workers, but frankly, I'm not sure, because I don't really know who my coworkers are. I've never been introduced. In four months. So there was one of those charming little events out my window at noon. It's almost three now, and it's happening again. Someone's birthday is today. I gathered that from the singing. I'm just about shoulder level with the action, about two feet and a glass pane away. People have actually leaned back on my window while talking to their phones or each other, the way people sometimes lean on parked cars. Yeah. So annoying. So bizarre. So awkward.
Posted by hissycat at 02:45 PM | Comments (17) | TrackBack
September 21, 2005
A Cry For Help
I have to write a slew of short narrative paragraphs appropriate for third and fourth graders. Things like "Visiting Grandma At The Nursing Home" and "A Funny Story About Birthday Cake." They have to be totally innocuous and can have no mention of religous holidays, Halloween, gay parenting, or monkeys. I'm pulling up blanks. I need your ideas.
Note: if you are planning to slip in subversive messages about feminism, socialism, or independent thinking in an attempt to mold the minds of the young, you are going to have to be pretty fucking subtle. That paragraph "Why Emma Goldman Is My Hero" so did not fly. And in regards to level of diffculty, pretend you are writing to an audience of four-year-old, lobotomized George W. Bush's.
Suggestions? Advice? Sweet, sweet opiates?
On this National Day Of Delurking, help a girl out. Delurk your lovely self. Leave a comment.
Thanks.
Posted by hissycat at 01:39 PM | Comments (12) | TrackBack
September 09, 2005
I Am Happy At Work: Or, My Mantra On A Postcard
 | Currently Listening Martha Wainwright By Martha Wainwright see related |
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Posted by hissycat at 09:35 AM | Comments (40) | TrackBack
September 07, 2005
My Boob, Like My Dignity, Is Damaged. Also, Lumpy.
I behaved somewhat badly at orientation yesterday. I arrived late and caused a commotion knocking things over on my way to find a seat at the far end of one of the two long, long conference tables. My bag was exploding stuff,and it took me a while to collect myself and get settled. Iasked questions about health insurance that caused the HR-bot tobacktrack and repeat herself because she misunderstood what I wasasking, and then an obnoxiously slick-looking, pastel-button-downwearing youngish man who, if I overheard correctly, is an English Ph.D.with a teaching post (figures) had to translate my question for me andask it again. I kept getting up to go pee and causing a rumpusand I stole handfuls of post-it pads that were set out in littlebaskets on the conference table so we could mark up our packets andbrochures as we followed along. Because I didnot feel the need to pay attention to the slide shows about all thewonderful perqs Stanford has to offer and because the lectures on HRAs,retirement plans, and long-term investing was both painfully boring andutterly beyond my powers of comprehension, I unfocused my ears, pulledout my laptop, and turned my attention to the html and css I waswriting. Essentially, I was behaving at any unbearably boringStanford lecture.
Aside from a few conspiratorialsmiles I got from a fat, sassy older woman in a colorful blouse acrossfrom me who I assume was some wise-cracking humanities appointee freshfrom an east coast institution, recognising me as one of her own kindand sending me her tacit approval, everyone else clearly dissapprovedof me. A young Asian woman, irritatingly tidy (she was eating her scone with knife and fork) and preppiliydressed, was sitting across from me, right next to Prof. Sass and keptshooting me looks that were if not nasty then at least mildlydisgusted. On the rare occaision I lifted my eyes from the laptopscreen, I would catch her sort of tsk-tsking me with her eyes. Then she'd quickly glance away. They all thought I was a young,dumb, ill-mannered brat. As well they should have. Mydress, which I had grabbed that morning without thinking, wasinappropriately low-cut. I didn't notice how ho-baggy I lookeduntil mid-morning when I spilled half a thimble of half-&-half onmy lap. I looked down to survey the damage and saw my cleavagelooking back up at me, smiling. No, not smiling. Itwas smirking. Smirking menacingly.
Neither surprising nor entertaining, my boredom and impoliteness at anHR function. But you will need to know all this for later on.
Because my insurance is not all set up, I was told by the hospitalyesterday that the quickest way to get seen was not by scheduling anappointment but by calling this morning and requesting a same-dayvisit. I did. This morning, I called and was given a 10:20appointment with a general practitioner. Brett drove us becausewe'd both slept in a little late and because I'm picking him up latertoday anyway; I snoozed in the car. Brett grabbed me some Googlefeed and I drove back up to P.A.. It was 10:07 by the time I wason Campus Drive, but the street I was looking for was not where Iremembered it to be. I was driving at a crawl, reading streetsigns, looking, feeling abused and shaky. I turned into adead-end road to pull a U when I noticed the red and blue lightsflashing behind me.
"Do you know why I pulled you over?"
"No."
"You ran a stop sign."
He asked for my licence, registration and proof of insurance. License? No problem Registration? There was shufflinginvolved, the glove compartment unleasing its contents into the rest ofthe mess and filth on the floor, but eventually I found a square ofcarstock whose numbers and words were printed in an old sans-seriftypwriter font and which looked out-dated and inefficient enough to beproperly beaurocratic and offical (think: Weight Watchers,pre-computerized booklets, when we had actual paper, alphebetized filesto carry up to the scales with us so the staff could write a numberin); I asked if it was my registration and it was. Insurance? Sorry. No go. I lose. He wasnot impressed when I offered to show him the electronic copy on mylaptop.
I got a moving violation for the stop light and for the insurance, anappointment in Palo Alto traffic court where I have to prove that I dohave insurance by producing "just a print-out of that thing."
I was sniffing back tears as he explained to me what I could do toclear my record (traffic school) and how it wasn't such a big deal.
He was extremely nice, actually. I wasn't upset over the tickets,I was just feeling late and ill-treated by the universe and he seemedso competent and kind as he gave me directions to the clinic I waslooking for that I lost my hold of myself just a little.
I pull into the parking structure about twenty minutes after I wasscheduled to show up at the office and immedeatly proceed to drive mycar into a parked tow-truck. Hard. But I finished pullinginto the spot and didn't pause to check the damage on my own car as Ihurried away. In the wrong direction.
I don't know how late I was when I got there. In the exam room,the nurse took my vitals. I knew I'd been off the wagon a lotlatelly. I avoided going last week because I didn't want toweigh-in, and I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't142lbs. I mean, that can't be accurate. I was 136 a weekand a half ago. I want to be 130, which is what I was this timelast year. But I keep failing, failing, failing.
The medical assistant looks over my chart and asks questions. Sheasks, "so the reason you are here [pause] is [pause as she adjusts herface] a blump?"
A blump? I stare blankly at her for at least fifteen seconds as Itry to understand what she is saying. A blump? What? Could that be the medical term for--
She interrupts my thought: "A lump. A lump in your breast."
"Oh, yes," I say. "Right."
"Your right breast?"
"No. Left one."
She leaves. The doctor comes in and she's young, which already Idon't like. She's young and she's preppy and she's Asian. She looks somewhat familiar, but then there are a lot of doctors andresidents at Stanford that are young, preppy and Asian. I don'tthink much of it. She's looking at my chart, asking me morequestions. All of a sudden she interrupts herself; "Wait, youwere at the orientation yesterday, weren't you? Yes, I wassitting directly across from you."
Of course. My dissapprover.
My confidence in this doctor is dealt another blow. Strike two.
I rattle off my list of medications: Zoloft, 150mg; Wellbutrin 100mgtwice a day; Ritalin, 20mg three times a day (though it is actuallyususually four); and birth control. "And who writes theseprescriptions?" she asks, and it seems like she is asking, "and what isthat person doing with a medical licensce?" too.
"Dr. Harriet R---" say I.
"And who is Dr. R--?" she asks.
"Um, a doctor. A psychaitrist." She looks at me like I'vejust told her I take pills given to me by my imaginary friend. "I've been seeing her for, like, four and a half years."
"Oh, that's good. That's greaaate." Her voice ispurposefully soft and ingratiating and she speaks slowly while noddingher head with what I suppose is meant to be understood ascompassion. She is incredibly condescending. Strike three,but it's not over.
I had written A.D.D. as one my medical problems on my historysheet. I see her looking over at it and then she asks, "So, theRitalin you take, is that to help with conentration" --I am about toanswer yes, when she continues-- "or do you actually have A.D.D.?"
What the fuck is that? "Um, both?" I stutter, dumbfounded. It can't be possible that she doesn't know what A.D.D. stands for, itjust can't. Is she implying something, the preppy bitch? Iso do not understand what she is asking.
"And what kind of birth control do you use?"
"Ortho Tri-Cyclin,"
"How long have you been taking it?"
"About four or five years. Well, for a very brief time I was onOrtho TriCyclinLo, but that was disastrous, it totally did not work. "
"In what way was it disastrous?" she asks.
"Oh, in the way that I, you know, got pregnant."
"Maybe it was too Lo!" she says. Then she giggles. ha ha.
"And do you smoke?" she asks, even though she knows I do, the goddamn sheet I filled out is right in front of her.
"Yes," I say. I know exactly where this is going.
"How much?"
"I don't know exactly. Maybe seven or eight cigarettes a day."
"Who writes your prescriptions for the pill?"
I tell her I don't know her name, but it's the nurse-practitioner atVaden whose latexed digits have paid call to nearly every studentvagina.
"Vay -der," she sounds out very slowly. "What's Vader? What's that?"
I have to explain it's Vaden, and it's the student healthclinic. She asks about my visits with nurse at Vader(meaning, she asks howthey could possibly continue to write prescriptions for the pill),until I realize she must think I go there and get a new prescriptionevery month. Which is retarded. I explain to her that birthcontrolprescriptions (in my experience) are prescribed by the dozen, so I onlyhave to see the nurse once a year and then every month I just have topick up a pack from the pharmacy.
She tells me that smoking in combination with the pill is risky, thatsmoking while on the pill puts me at risk for blod clots. I knowshe has to say these things, but I thought she was a little over thetop. She kept saying how she would never have prescribed contraceptives for me and how she neverallows patients who smoke to take the pill. And how, if I wereher regular patient (by now, of course, I'm thanking my stars that I'mnot), she would take me off the pill. She asks me if I've triedto quit and said yes, I had, but hey, I'm smoking again. She frowns disapprovingly. "For now, I won't change this, butnext time you're here, we'll have to discuss this. I don't let mypatients smoke and take any contraception at all. It puts you atsuch a high risk for clots."
I realized later, that it wasn't the Vaden nurse who had prescribedthis round of B.C., it was the gynocologist I saw last winter, when Igot pregnant, who I trust infinately more that this woman. Iunderstand smoking while on the pill increases the risk of blood clots,I really do, and I know that blood clots are nasty and bad. Butthe idea that she would have me on no hormonal contraceptive isidiotic. Beyond idiotic. I am twenty-two. I have lotsof sex. And, AND, I GOT PREGNANT WHILE ON THE PILL (with PERFECTUSE). Duh. I just told her that I got pregnant when theydropped me down to a lower dose of hormone. Taking me offcompletely? Bad idea! Big, fat, shiny, in-flashy-lettersBAD IDEA. Bad, bad, don't-even-think it idea. Reducinghormonal birth control = horrible idea, already tested and proved to behorrible.
The thing is that the doctor I saw today, Dr. Dumb, is just soyoung. I know what she was suggesting is probably, techincallywhat she is supposed to say. She was probably taught not toencourage women to smoke on the pill and she's just following what shelearned in class and in her textbook. But the thing is, thattelling me to stop taking the pill because I smoke is inane. Ofcourse my risk factor is higher than it would if I didn't smoke, but myrisk factor of getting pregnant if I'm not on the pill is so great,it's not even a risk. It's a flat-out guarantee. The gyno Isaw was an older woman, very business-like and matter-of-fact. Her brusqueness was very reassuring, like she'd seen it all before,like she was just too solid and competent to bother to slow her speechor otherwise condescend. The gyno knew I smoked and after shescraped my uterus with what looked like a shoehorn and hoovered theproducts of conception out of me and into a glass jar, she wrote me aprescription for a B.C. pill with a high dose of hormone. Shedidn't suggest I cease taking hormonal B.C.; in fact, she was all butfrisbeeing the disks of pills into my throat (orsomething). Because if some one is twenty-two, has intercoursewith a man or men, is fertile as all fuck, as has been proven by arecent unwanted pregnancy that happened while on the low dose pill, andnot only doesn't want to be pregnant but also would be medicallyadvised against pregnancy (i.e. psychiatric illnesses + medication+ fertilized human egg = dolphin fetus), then theincreased risk factor is worth it. Duh. I'm notsaying it's optimal, but it's reasonable. In fact, it's theonly choice that's reasonable.
Jesus gay this is a long post, and I'm not even up to the breastexam. I bet Dr. Dumb loves PowerPoint. Dr. Dumb totallyloves PowerPoint presentations. And uses (blech) comic sans for afun, informal look. Whimsy! I don't know how I know this,but I do. It's the feeling I get.
Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, my tit. Iexplain that last week, I noticed what I thought was a bruise, but thatthe color had gotten darker rather than lighter as the week wenton. Then I was poking around a couple nights ago and noticed abump. It's a sizable bump, near the bruise, just north of mynipple. Dr. Dumb asked me how I thought I had bruisedmyself. Had I had a bump or a hit? I told her no. Sowhat did you think it was from? "Well, I thought it was a, uh,hickey. But then I was out of town for the holiday weekend, awayfrom my boyfriend, and the skin darkened and reddened, so I had secondthoughts about its bruiseness." She asked family history, and Iexplained: my mother's sister has breast cancer; my father's mother hadbreast cancer when she was my age. She asked about my immedeatefamily. Neither of my parents has cancer, and I have nosiblings. "Technically," she said, "traditionally, the extendedfamily-- your aunt and grandmother-- don't count, they don't increaseyour chances of having breast cancer." She poked my boob alittle, but the more I think about it, the more I think she did areally poor job of feeling me up. It was the quickest breast examI ever had. Even the Vader nurse takes more time.
"It looks like it's probably a bruise," she said, "if you were poking,it's possible you irritated or inflamed some tissue. Have youever had a breast nodule before?"
"No."
"Well, it's a benign lump. Most lumps in women your age arebenign. So what I'm going to say is just to go home and keep aneye on it. If it's just a bruise, it might resolve on itsown. If it doesn't, then you should call and come back."
"Ok," I said, completely not trusting her. "Well, what's going to happen in a week if it does not go away?"
"Then we'll do a sonogram to find out if the mass is solid or if it'sfluid filled. But it is highly unlikely for a woman your age tohave breast cancer. Younger women tend to have lumpy bumpybreasts. Some growths do cause changes and discoloration to theskin, but that is probably just a bruise. Given your age and thatyou have no family history--"
"But I do have family history. My grandmother had breast cancer very young."
"Techincally, that doesn't count. There is no history of cancer in your immedeate family."
"But," I said, "the is only one other person with breasts in my immedeate family."
I did not want to wait a week, I said. "Well, that's what we do,"she said. I was still unhappy. "It's a good sign that thelump appeared suddenly, though." I explained that I only noticedit a couple days ago because I was intrigued by the bruising andprodding. I don't do regular breast exams.
"Well, if it is a tumor," she said, "it is probably not going to matter if we wait just a week."
No, really. She said that. She finally relented, "Ok, shesaid, since you are so concerned, I will see you in three days. Well, on Monday, because for Friday there is really no point. I'mmaking an exception for you. Normally I would say in a week ortwo. But because I don't want you to worry, I'll let you comeback earlier."
Well, gee, thanks.
She was getting ready to leave and she asked me, "oh, by the way, isthis weird for you? I mean, that we met at the thing yesterday?"
"No," I said. It wasn't weird for me because we'd met. It was bad for me because I didn't like her.
Most likely, it is just a bruise. I was a little frayed the pasttwo days worrying, but I'm not freaking out right now. It isprobably just a bruise, but I want to hear that from someone other thanDr. Dumb.
Tonight: insurance forms! Tomorrow: quest for a new physician!
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Posted by hissycat at 01:58 PM | Comments (35) | TrackBack
September 01, 2005
Health Care is for Sissies
 | Currently Reading The Third Brother : A Novel By Nick McDonell see related |
And also, I do jack shit. I mean, I spend the vast majority of my work day fucking around on the internet. Now, in one sense, that's just peachy: I cat just sit in my private office and write or read or stick my thumb up my butt and not have anyone bugging me. But at the same time, all this pointless sloughing of time can be wearying and prohibitive. I can't *really* work on what I want to be working on. It's not like I can just pull up the novel and start working on that. I am in constant terror of being caught doing something wrong, because eventually some one has to realize how utterly worthless my presence here is, right? It makes me feel shifty and bad, being here. My time isn't *really* my time, and I'm not free to fully engage in my own projects and I'm certainly not engaging fully with the work projects. It feels like I'm keeping my brain on ice, like I'm always just waiting for something to do with it. It kind of really sucks.
On Sunday, Brett had some friends over for a dinner and I was talking to Emily and Shaun, who are both working artists. Emily is really a model of how to live and work as an artist with integrity. We were talking about jobs, and I was saying that I really wanted to leave but am limited by health insurance (essentially, I have no other way of obtaining healthcare except through an employer; in addition to being young and poor, I'm also insane in at least three different ways with a prescription for each. Oh, and a smoker, too. And in California, The Land Without Regulation, insurers are free to turn down anyone they choose, and you know they choose me). Emily mentioned that the local yuppie grocer-- and I love local yuppie grocers-- offers health insurance to their part-time employees and is currently hiring. That is exactly what I need: health insurance and a job that is 1) local 2) menial 3) would leave me the time and brain I need to put in my writing. It's true, I have spending problems, but by Monday afternoon I was determined that this was something I would have to make work. I'd just have to go without. No vacation, no unessential purchases, and rely on wilted produce intercepted on its way to the trash bin.
But I need the insurance now, you know, so I was pushy on Tuesday, and yesterday, my appointment went through. I'm going to be out of here in a year, though. I give myself one year to get up on my freelancing legs at least enough to reasonably supplement the salary of a part-time casheir at a grocery and to maybe, if I'm lucky, save up a couple of month's rent so I have some padding when I leave.
I'm going to do actual, like, work, now. Oh, but you know what is good? Because today is my last day working as a temp, I get handed my last two weeks' salary today instead of waiting another week for payroll and direct deposit to go through. Which is exciting. For once, I can actually pay my rent on time.
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Posted by hissycat at 10:19 AM | Comments (24) | TrackBack
August 26, 2005
It's 2 a.m. Do I know where I am? Yes, I Do Unfortunately.
It's 2am. I am not sleeping and I am not happy. This time,I'm not happy not in a depressive, listless way but in a why the fuckdo I do this to myself? kind of way. Yes, I'm propped up andbuzzing on Ritalin and Excedrin, desperately trying to complete alanguage arts course for third-graders because I've spent all my timeat the office this week fucking around on the Internet instead of doingmy work. Oh, and gaining .6 lbs, apparently.
Yes kids, today was a Weight Watchers Thursday. I knew this hadbeen a bad eating week. I've just gotten really slack about it,not measuring portions, underestimating my Points values, snacking toomuch, descending upon the free samples at Andronico's like an elderlyJew at a half-price buffet. Every time I go in there to get asalad, I end up hovering all sneaky-eyed over the platters of cheesecubes and coffee cake cubes and cubed pumpkin bread and miniatureslices of baguette laid out next to olive oil dips and fruitspreads. Oh man, a few days ago they had open jars of thisamazing bittersweet chocolate fudgey goop and spreadable caramel, and Ijust stood there, my basket resting on the ground beside me, makingmyself at home, spreading and mixing and eating. Then I felt kindof ashamed, as I had no intention of actually purchasing the stuff, soafter I picked up my basket, I just stood at the display, picking upjars and pointing my eyes at the prices so it would look like I wasreally thinking this one over, like I needed another sample to help meconsider, just in case the flavor had, you know, changed in the lastthirty seconds. You know what would be great? If I just gotbanned from that place. I always end up spending too much moneythere anyway on yuppie foodstuffs I can't afford.
Andronico's indiscretions aside, though, I didn't actually go over mypoints by that much. I didn't even use all of my flex points, infact. I feel cheated. I feel entitled to my thirty-fiveweekly flex points, even though I know from experience that I do notloose if I use more than half of them. I was hoping for amiracle. Or, as my meeting leader, would say, "Dreaming theImpossible Dream."
Yes, this was Persistence week, and so we were treated to a veryspecial "Man of La Mancha" revue. To, you know, inspire us? Man, I've been through the twelve-week Tools for Living (also known asthemes) cycle way too many times (I bet I can name them all:Persistence, Anchoring, Visualizing Success, Positive Self-Talking,Reframing, Planning Ahead. . . oh fuck it, it's like trying to name allseven of the dwarfs). On the sunnier side of things though, I raninto a former house mate (who shall remain nameless-- some people, itseems, don't care to be Weight Watcher's outed, though I can't imaginewhy) at my meeting today. This is the first time this hashappened to me in the two years (off and on) I've been going. Notjust the first time I've run into a familiar face, mind you, but thefirst time I've run into any face aged less than forty years.
You know what? I really need to get back to work. This shitis due at noon, and these third-graders are going to be getting somepretty zaney, tripped-out stories, hear?
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Posted by hissycat at 02:34 AM | Comments (21) | TrackBack
August 05, 2005
A-OK
 | Currently Listening In the Aeroplane Over the Sea By Neutral Milk Hotel see related |
I'm feeling very bouncy today. I slept very deeply, without any bad dreams. I got a full eight hours in (of course I woke up an hour late, but it didn't matter, as Tamara was to futzing with various cars for the next half hour anyway). Last night, I wrote. Ifeel like I'll write more today and I've set a modest daily goal for myself. I'm picking up Alex at the airport after work-- he's visiting from Seattle for the weekend. I'm going out dancing with bunnies tonight. And Brett called and invited me to dine with him at Google between work and the airport, and you know, the pleasure of an invitation is hardly diminished at all by my having to ask for it and my not being able to go (car problems made me late for work, so I'm going to stay late so I get my 8 hours of pay). But best of all.. .
I got me some health insurance!!! Oh man, I am so excited. I sent my boss an email yesterday afternoon timidly pointing out thatmy student coverage would expire soon and that I can't afford to pay for my prescriptions on my own, so at the very least could I please know if and when to expect benefits so that if there is a gap I can make other arrangements (not that I have any idea about what other arrangements I could make, as someone who can't afford to buy pills,can't afford to buy insurance, and even if I could buy very expensive insurance, I would still have to pay for my meds out of pockets, as ADDand depression fall under the category of 'pre-existingconditions.' I wouldn't be surprised if private insurance refused to pay for my birth control, too, because, you know, my reproductive system is pre-existing; I can imagine being told that if I had begun menarche while I was on their plan they could have covered me, but since I've been menstruating since well before I joined, there's just nothing they can do).
Well, I was kind of nervous and frightened about getting a response. Not that I thought my boss would be mean about it, but,I don't know, I just don't like asking for things.
This morning when I got to work there was a reply waiting in my inbox for me that said oh, of course I could have benefits, and oh, we'll just give this HR and move all this right along, and oh, if things don't move fast enough, well, just let someone know and you'll be on the phone haggling over mental health premiums with an insurance rep before you can say boo.
So that was nice. And now I'm happy.
So I like my job again today. Plus, I'm working more, which means I'm not so bored and useless feeling. I'm going to try to string out this wave of benefits enthusiasm for as long as I can, and have a more positive attitude about my job.
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Posted by hissycat at 02:49 PM | Comments (28) | TrackBack
August 03, 2005
It's Just Another Hypomanic Monday (Oh-Oh-Woah)
I'm doing some serious fantasizing about making radio stories for ThisAmerican Life. I have a couple of ideas for stories I'd like to do. I've been looking at recording equipment on Transom.org and trying to figure out what I need, but I'm having a hard time making sense of everything. All I need is something basic thatworks. Of course, I will probably need to buy a computer first, as the space bar on my laptop has been broken since spilling vodka on it last week; I mean, that's not the only reason I need a new one-- my laptop is also just old and slow and generally busted; I tried to buy a new computer this weekend. Brett and I went to the Apple store downtown and to CompUSA; I even filled out the application at Apple to purchase a laptop on a lay-a-way plan, but of course, I was rejected, because I have no credit history. It really sucks. It's amazingly hard to get a credit card without a history, but of course you don't have a history until you open a line of credit. You also can't do online BillPay, can't get a cellphone contract without leaving a deposit and so on. For the lastmonth I've been applying for credit cards and getting rejected. I know perfectly well that it's totally stupid-- I have a job; I pay my rent-- and that the only reason is that I have no credit score. Still, I feel like such a loser every time I get rejected. Like,it's this judgement on me, that I'm not resposible enough and not a good grown-up.
I also had a particularly frustrating encounter with my credit union; I applied (in person, explaining to the teller that I just wanted the simplist, most basic, beginner credit card) and was told I would hear back by the end of the day. Of course, it took a week and I had to call the credit man at the bank and leave messages on his machine. Finally, I got a phone call telling me that I had been rejected for the $10,000 platinum card. What? I thought, well, duh, you'd have to be a moron to give me a credit card with a $10,000 line of credit. You know, I'd have to be a moron to apply for a platinum card and think I could get one. But of course, I didn't. I suppose the teller punched in my request wrong. Whatever. Anyway, I was told that Visa made a counter-offfer for a Classic card with a $500 limit. Perfect. All I had to do, the guy told me, was fax him a copy of my paystub. I asked if I could email it instead and he said fine. I emailed him a copy ofmy paystub. Then I get an email back from him saying that I can't send an electronic version, it needs to be the receipt kind that gets mailed to me. I write back to inform him that I don't get a paper copy, I'm on the University Payroll and do direct deposit at theuniversity credit union. I get an email back that is five words long:
"everyone gets a paper stub."
Not only is this not true in my case, it is not true in the case of what I imagine to be a very large percentage of members of the credit union, since anyone who is on payroll and direct deposit at the University associated with the credit union is in the same situation as me: no paper stub. In fact, I looked this up and there's a big notice as soon as you get to the payroll website explaining that they no longer mail paper stubs. So I write back and calmly explain why I don't get a paper stub (by the way, if I'm on direct deposits houldn't they already have some kind of record of my earnings? is it really necessary for me to make a record of what they obviously must already have on file?) I don't hear back for maybe two weeks. Then I get a letter in the mail-- a letter informing me that I'd been denied that $10,000 platinum card I'd applied for.
So yesterday I finally got it together to go talk to someone at thecredit union. This time, I went to a different branch and had no problems. I got a call the same afternoon saying I'd been accepted and just needed to send proof of income. I told thewoman about the paper paystub issue and she said not to worry, theelectronic copy is totally fine. So now I'll have a credit card in about a week.
I've been feeling kind of funny lately. I'm going to say this is partly my own fault for letting my meds run out last week and not getting a refill of my prescriptions till Monday. But I also just feel funny. You know, I've been out of school a few months,working at my job, I feel like I should be falling into apattern. But all I think about is other things I could/ should/wish I would be doing. Like going to librarian school. Like applying to This American Life's internship program and going to Chicago for four months. Like writing in a serious way--especially, finishing the two short stories I have laying around and sending them off and transforming my thesis into a kicky article on lesbian pulps that I can pitch to some kicky magazine.
I know in theory this is a good job and I should be grateful I found it, but I want to be doing something else. I want to be putting more of my time into creative and intellectual work again. I'd like to look for something else, but it's so hard and takes so much time and energy that I can't imagine working and job-hunting at the same time. I'd probably have to quit my job to do a serious hunt, and I can't afford to do that. On the other hand, if I don't start getting benefits soon, I can't afford not to do that. My salary isn't something I'd sneeze at, but with no health insurance, it isn't worth it. I require three expensive prescription psychopharmeceuticals as well birth control and at least semi-regular therapy and med-checks with my psychaitrist. My goodness, I require extensive upkeep. In any case, at the very least I need my Rx drugs covered. I mean, I could easily be spending half my salary just to pay for my drugs. That's just not liveable. In that case, I think it would make more sense to quit and be a full-time job hunter and find a position with benefits as soon as possible.
Man, I hate that healthcare is so expensive. There are a ton of jobs I'd rather be doing but can't because I need health insurance. Like, I'd rather just have some dinky little job inthe city to make bucks and then have more energy to put into writing, but since there are no bartending/ table-waiting/ shirt-folding jobsthat have health insurance, it's just totally out of the picture. Same reason why I can't just tutor, even though I'd probably be making more dollars. It's just impossible for me to buy my own insurance, and even if I could, no insurance company in CA is going to cover my pre-existing conditions (depression, anxiety, ADD), which are of course the reasons I need coverage in the first place. I hope I get insurance soon at this job, although no one has really told me what is going on. I've been to scared to ask my boss and I don'tget the impression that anyone else has any idea. I wish this place were organized more like a normal kind of company.
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Posted by hissycat at 03:42 PM | Comments (26) | TrackBack