Monday, December 21, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
But the Weather's Nice...? Part Two
I swear to god if one more person says another goddamn thing about how fucking HAPPY I should be that the WEATHER IN CALIFORNIA OMG is EXCELLENT and OH BY THE WAY IT'S SNOWING IN CHICAGO I'm going to rip their fucking heads off.
I'm sorry, but when you have gone through the sheer amounts of fuckery that I have in the past few months, something as trivial as THE WEATHER is not nearly as significant as losing over $2,000, being 2000 miles away from friends and family, supporting three people on an AMERICORPS STIPEND, and paying up the ass for my car to be fixed as I find out more and more things are wrong with the damn machine.
Oh, and here's the icing on the cake: I'm not serving anyone here. Not doing a damn thing to improve or better the lives of other people. I am, in essence, hemorrhaging money for the pleasure of being another useless office drone. And since I've been financially devastated by EVERYTHING, I have no way of even moving back to Chicago. I am completely and utterly fucked.
So if you please, STOP FUCKING TALKING ABOUT THE DAMN WEATHER. It cannot even BEGIN to make up for the amount of shit I've gone through here.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Text Messages from JoJo's Friends
(Note: Grammatical "styles" have been maintained)
Nov 15
Unknown #1: Hi how are you
Nov 20
Unknown #2: HOUSE PARTY [address redacted] TONITE @ 10 PM $5 TO GET
Get what!?
Nov 22
Uncle Joe: Call Me Its Uncle Joe
Me: You have the wrong number. But when you do reach Jojo, please tell him to tell his friends and family the RIGHT phone # so they stop calling me all the time.
Uncle Joe: Do u have it?
Me: Nope, I live in California and have never even talked to him.
Uncle Joe: Ok Sorry
Dec 4
Unknown #1 (again): Hey girl how you been?
Girl? I thought Jojo was a male!?
Dec 5
Unknown #3: Jojo. U gave me ur card and well. I wanted to get a piercing. U didnt have the right bar for me on thursday so can u do it today?
Me: I'm not jojo.
Unknown #3: Sorry thanks.
Dec 7
Unknown #4: Yo
Me: Hi?
Unknown #4: Jojo rite?
Me: Uh, no.
Unknown #4: Mybad
Dec 7
Javy: Yo. Its Javy. Dominic's cousin. Do Y.Ou got a pair of brass knuckles
Me: Hi Javy. Its Dana, no relation to Dominic. No, I don't have a pair of brass knuckles, sorry.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Finding Peace Where There Was None
Nearly five years ago I left Michigan in a hurry, eager to move on with my life in Chicago. I was a wreck, unsure of who I was and what I wanted, but angry. Angry and rebellious, ready to be a grown-up and be treated as one.
I'm still angry today, but rather than feeling anger at my family, I feel anger at the institutions. At the corporations that have taken advantage of their workers, at the politicians and voters who have discriminated against people of color, homosexuals, trans* people, women, people with disabilities, and poor people. I'm angry at financial institutions and businesses that make their profits through making other people poorer -- and providing no service of benefit in return. I'm angry because of all these things, because for once in my life I know who I am and what I want.
Back then, I didn't know those things, so I was just angry angry angry, in such a way I didn't know how to express besides running away. I fled to Chicago.
I should pause here and clarify: Running away implies I would one day return like the prodigal child. I never returned in that sense. I still, even as a Californian, believe that my roots have been firmly planted in Chicago, in a way that they never fully grew in as a Michigan resident. It is a hard distinction to make, but the easiest way to describe it is this .... I am a Chicagoan currently living in California who grew up in Michigan.
For a long time, particularly as my mother underwent chemotherapy and I struggled to fit in at a high school that wouldn't fit me, I rebelled through dressing in baggy, dark clothing. Some of it was cutesy and fun -- the cat ears, the criss-crossed chains on my pants, the numerous zippers and buttons. But a lot of it was an attempt to be noticed, a scream to be heard by someone. I went to my teachers and impressed them with my abilities, respect, and thoughtfulness, then came home and loathed my mother, both for being sick and for not being who I needed her to be at the time. She was angry too, for many worthy reasons, and our anger together clashed until I lashed out over and over and over again.
My lashing out culminated in my leaving home behind as if it had never existed. My friendships dwindled, my contact with my family was nearly nonexistent. I could not stand to spend time in Michigan, which constantly reminded me of people I loathed -- my high school tormentors; my friend and her father, the father for attempting to sexually assault me, the friend for not believing me when I told her what happened; my piano teacher who also tried to sexually assault me; my old therapist; my brother, who at the time demonized me for tearing our family apart; my parents. I could not step foot in Michigan without being surrounded by bad memories. And in my discomfort, I avoided it.... staying for only a day or two at a time, then hurrying back to Chicago where I felt like myself again.
I spent four years in Chicago learning how to be myself. Graduating from college in only three years, then beginning work at a PR firm. I got tattoos and piercings that helped distinguish me and my beliefs. I wrote articles for newspapers and magazines and transcribed hours upon hours of interviews, then spent additional hours devouring every piece of media I could attain. I made friends I adored and met Will, who I continue to love. And in all this, I found peace within myself and began to mend the relationships with my parents.
That brings us to now.
In seeking to better the person I had become, I joined AmeriCorps and moved to California, where I currently live. I have faced months of tumult. I have felt myself breaking down. I have not yet chronicled everything that has happened, but it has taken a lot out of my spirit, to the extent that I have wondered, after each crisis that comes up, whether I'm going to make it out of this one okay.
So when I received news of my maternal grandfather passing away (my father called to let me know he had probably a week or two), I felt that it was yet another in a long string of horrible incidents designed to break me. I anxiously awaited the day I would receive another call to say he had died. Instead, a few days later, my paternal great-aunt suffered from cardiac arrest following a surgery and died shortly after. I was unable to attend the funeral, but called my family to let them know I was thinking of them. I'm sure her funeral was lovely, as she was a wonderful person and surrounded by equally wonderful family members. I will always remember Thanksgiving dinners at her house, filled with cousins who would go sledding on the hills if there was snow, or play Mario 3 on her Super Nintendo. She made a fabulous nut bread that I couldn't eat enough of and couldn't wait to get my hands on... And though it's been more than a decade since I've experienced those get-togethers with a house filled from top to bottom with family, it'll be something I'll always remember.
Life, temporarily, went back to normal. When I talked to my mother on the phone about my grandfather, she told me about all the things she was doing to keep busy. She said, "I can't just stop to wait for him to die. I have to keep my life going." That's the best thing to do, and what I tried to do as well. I attended an in-service training for AmeriCorps, came down with the flu and spent the entire weekend in bed, and then attempted to make an entire thanksgiving dinner in a toaster oven (mild success?) with my boyfriend and his friend, who had flown to California and is living with us now. That's another story for another time.
Then on Thanksgiving, my grandfather passed away. My family learned about it the following day and called me, and I called the VISTA support team to see if I could get time off to fly home. Even though it was the day after a holiday, someone was in the office and they graciously were able to book me for a flight home. I was allowed to take the entire following week off, so I did. I flew back to Michigan on Sunday and would fly home the following Friday evening.
Monday was the funeral.
It would have been smaller, had my grandmother and grandfather (divorced since the year I was born) not had six children. In attendance were my four aunts and their husbands and children (with the exception of two grown cousins), my uncle, my grandmother and her sisters, and my grandfather's sister and her son. A few other people came as well, relatives mostly, but I can't be too sure. One of my uncles failed to show up. Only three spoke about my grandfather -- my mother and two aunts.
What made the funeral sad was not my grandfather's passing. Most of those in attendance barely knew him. Those who did, and spoke about his life, struggled to find the good in him to talk about. My aunt and mother talked about fixing the car with him, and sharing a love of music. All three talked about how he "may not have been the best father" but was "the best he could have been" and shared lessons they'd learned from him, most notably -- how to forgive someone who has caused harm to your life. My mother, whenever she talks about my grandfather, talks about forgiveness. But to me, the lesson was something more along the lines of "Do no harm" and "Be compassionate to others so that people at your funeral don't have to struggle to find something nice to say about you."
The attending minister gave a typical funeral speech taken out of a book. He had never met my grandfather in life either, and since my grandfather has been suffering from dementia for the past few years, it would have been hard to say much about him if you met him recently anyway. It's been over a decade since I've seen him myself. Unlike my great-aunt, whose memory fills me with warmth, when I remember him I just see a face, a person who didn't particularly care that I existed (nothing personal, he didn't talk to most of the family). He barely stopped by, and only then talked to just my mother. He couldn't even remember who she was, at the end. Even though she was the person who stuck with him until the end.
While his family was (and still, probably is) struggling to not see him as a horrible father, husband, and grandparent, his mind was growing darker and darker. I imagine he must have been very lonely at the end. I don't know what dementia is like, but I would hope that if you are loved, even if you don't remember their names or faces, that you feel loved. I don't know if my grandfather would have felt loved. After all, it wasn't even until he was in a nursing home that anyone even stepped up (my mother and uncle) to take care of him and his estate. Was it too late by then? Too late for him to know some people forgave and loved him?
But I agree with Mary Roach, author of Stiff -- death is not really about the one who has died. It's about everyone else. What matters to those people. And during my grandfather's funeral, I watched my family make decisions to move on, to forgive, to love, and to try harder. I also watched old family feuds play out, and still today I wonder what it will take for them to love each other again. I hope, for all our sakes, that it doesn't turn ugly at the end.
Before the funeral, and following it at my parent's house, I was able to reconnect with my cousins and some of the relatives I hadn't seen since I was a small child. It was wonderful. And then everyone left, many of them were returning back to their homes that evening, and those out of town were leaving the following morning.
Unfortunately, the next day (Tuesday), my aunt, who was staying with us, suffered a diabetic episode. She hadn't eaten enough the previous night, and her blood sugar was low enough that her brain wasn't functioning properly. She was aggressive and insisted on being allowed to sleep in. My cousin and mother attempted to get her to drink orange juice, but she refused and demanded a beer (which she doesn't even like!) instead. The paramedics were called, and they were able to help the situation. Her blood sugar went back to normal and her brain did too. My mother went to drop my older brother off at the train station (he forgot his tickets so we had to bring them back to him) so he could go home to Illinois. My aunt and her family stayed for an extra day to make sure she was okay.
By Wednesday, life had become more calm, at least for me. My mother and brothers were busy with school and the after-school musical. This was the day I needed to de-stress. After all the pent-up anxiety from everything that was happening in California, my nerves were constantly tense. I felt afraid and nervous. Wednesday, I finally allowed myself to relax.
Sometime in between the day I found out my grandfather was dying, and the day I flew to Michigan, I stopped stressing about the death and began to view this trip as a welcome relief from the crises I had faced in California. I was looking forward to the comfort of home, even though it was not the home I had built in Chicago, I recognized Michigan as a place where I could be surrounded by family I had previously shunned (and now adored) and as a place where I could attain some peace of mind.
I'm still angry today, but rather than feeling anger at my family, I feel anger at the institutions. At the corporations that have taken advantage of their workers, at the politicians and voters who have discriminated against people of color, homosexuals, trans* people, women, people with disabilities, and poor people. I'm angry at financial institutions and businesses that make their profits through making other people poorer -- and providing no service of benefit in return. I'm angry because of all these things, because for once in my life I know who I am and what I want.
Back then, I didn't know those things, so I was just angry angry angry, in such a way I didn't know how to express besides running away. I fled to Chicago.
I should pause here and clarify: Running away implies I would one day return like the prodigal child. I never returned in that sense. I still, even as a Californian, believe that my roots have been firmly planted in Chicago, in a way that they never fully grew in as a Michigan resident. It is a hard distinction to make, but the easiest way to describe it is this .... I am a Chicagoan currently living in California who grew up in Michigan.
For a long time, particularly as my mother underwent chemotherapy and I struggled to fit in at a high school that wouldn't fit me, I rebelled through dressing in baggy, dark clothing. Some of it was cutesy and fun -- the cat ears, the criss-crossed chains on my pants, the numerous zippers and buttons. But a lot of it was an attempt to be noticed, a scream to be heard by someone. I went to my teachers and impressed them with my abilities, respect, and thoughtfulness, then came home and loathed my mother, both for being sick and for not being who I needed her to be at the time. She was angry too, for many worthy reasons, and our anger together clashed until I lashed out over and over and over again.
My lashing out culminated in my leaving home behind as if it had never existed. My friendships dwindled, my contact with my family was nearly nonexistent. I could not stand to spend time in Michigan, which constantly reminded me of people I loathed -- my high school tormentors; my friend and her father, the father for attempting to sexually assault me, the friend for not believing me when I told her what happened; my piano teacher who also tried to sexually assault me; my old therapist; my brother, who at the time demonized me for tearing our family apart; my parents. I could not step foot in Michigan without being surrounded by bad memories. And in my discomfort, I avoided it.... staying for only a day or two at a time, then hurrying back to Chicago where I felt like myself again.
I spent four years in Chicago learning how to be myself. Graduating from college in only three years, then beginning work at a PR firm. I got tattoos and piercings that helped distinguish me and my beliefs. I wrote articles for newspapers and magazines and transcribed hours upon hours of interviews, then spent additional hours devouring every piece of media I could attain. I made friends I adored and met Will, who I continue to love. And in all this, I found peace within myself and began to mend the relationships with my parents.
That brings us to now.
In seeking to better the person I had become, I joined AmeriCorps and moved to California, where I currently live. I have faced months of tumult. I have felt myself breaking down. I have not yet chronicled everything that has happened, but it has taken a lot out of my spirit, to the extent that I have wondered, after each crisis that comes up, whether I'm going to make it out of this one okay.
So when I received news of my maternal grandfather passing away (my father called to let me know he had probably a week or two), I felt that it was yet another in a long string of horrible incidents designed to break me. I anxiously awaited the day I would receive another call to say he had died. Instead, a few days later, my paternal great-aunt suffered from cardiac arrest following a surgery and died shortly after. I was unable to attend the funeral, but called my family to let them know I was thinking of them. I'm sure her funeral was lovely, as she was a wonderful person and surrounded by equally wonderful family members. I will always remember Thanksgiving dinners at her house, filled with cousins who would go sledding on the hills if there was snow, or play Mario 3 on her Super Nintendo. She made a fabulous nut bread that I couldn't eat enough of and couldn't wait to get my hands on... And though it's been more than a decade since I've experienced those get-togethers with a house filled from top to bottom with family, it'll be something I'll always remember.
Life, temporarily, went back to normal. When I talked to my mother on the phone about my grandfather, she told me about all the things she was doing to keep busy. She said, "I can't just stop to wait for him to die. I have to keep my life going." That's the best thing to do, and what I tried to do as well. I attended an in-service training for AmeriCorps, came down with the flu and spent the entire weekend in bed, and then attempted to make an entire thanksgiving dinner in a toaster oven (mild success?) with my boyfriend and his friend, who had flown to California and is living with us now. That's another story for another time.
Then on Thanksgiving, my grandfather passed away. My family learned about it the following day and called me, and I called the VISTA support team to see if I could get time off to fly home. Even though it was the day after a holiday, someone was in the office and they graciously were able to book me for a flight home. I was allowed to take the entire following week off, so I did. I flew back to Michigan on Sunday and would fly home the following Friday evening.
Monday was the funeral.
It would have been smaller, had my grandmother and grandfather (divorced since the year I was born) not had six children. In attendance were my four aunts and their husbands and children (with the exception of two grown cousins), my uncle, my grandmother and her sisters, and my grandfather's sister and her son. A few other people came as well, relatives mostly, but I can't be too sure. One of my uncles failed to show up. Only three spoke about my grandfather -- my mother and two aunts.
What made the funeral sad was not my grandfather's passing. Most of those in attendance barely knew him. Those who did, and spoke about his life, struggled to find the good in him to talk about. My aunt and mother talked about fixing the car with him, and sharing a love of music. All three talked about how he "may not have been the best father" but was "the best he could have been" and shared lessons they'd learned from him, most notably -- how to forgive someone who has caused harm to your life. My mother, whenever she talks about my grandfather, talks about forgiveness. But to me, the lesson was something more along the lines of "Do no harm" and "Be compassionate to others so that people at your funeral don't have to struggle to find something nice to say about you."
The attending minister gave a typical funeral speech taken out of a book. He had never met my grandfather in life either, and since my grandfather has been suffering from dementia for the past few years, it would have been hard to say much about him if you met him recently anyway. It's been over a decade since I've seen him myself. Unlike my great-aunt, whose memory fills me with warmth, when I remember him I just see a face, a person who didn't particularly care that I existed (nothing personal, he didn't talk to most of the family). He barely stopped by, and only then talked to just my mother. He couldn't even remember who she was, at the end. Even though she was the person who stuck with him until the end.
While his family was (and still, probably is) struggling to not see him as a horrible father, husband, and grandparent, his mind was growing darker and darker. I imagine he must have been very lonely at the end. I don't know what dementia is like, but I would hope that if you are loved, even if you don't remember their names or faces, that you feel loved. I don't know if my grandfather would have felt loved. After all, it wasn't even until he was in a nursing home that anyone even stepped up (my mother and uncle) to take care of him and his estate. Was it too late by then? Too late for him to know some people forgave and loved him?
But I agree with Mary Roach, author of Stiff -- death is not really about the one who has died. It's about everyone else. What matters to those people. And during my grandfather's funeral, I watched my family make decisions to move on, to forgive, to love, and to try harder. I also watched old family feuds play out, and still today I wonder what it will take for them to love each other again. I hope, for all our sakes, that it doesn't turn ugly at the end.
Before the funeral, and following it at my parent's house, I was able to reconnect with my cousins and some of the relatives I hadn't seen since I was a small child. It was wonderful. And then everyone left, many of them were returning back to their homes that evening, and those out of town were leaving the following morning.
Unfortunately, the next day (Tuesday), my aunt, who was staying with us, suffered a diabetic episode. She hadn't eaten enough the previous night, and her blood sugar was low enough that her brain wasn't functioning properly. She was aggressive and insisted on being allowed to sleep in. My cousin and mother attempted to get her to drink orange juice, but she refused and demanded a beer (which she doesn't even like!) instead. The paramedics were called, and they were able to help the situation. Her blood sugar went back to normal and her brain did too. My mother went to drop my older brother off at the train station (he forgot his tickets so we had to bring them back to him) so he could go home to Illinois. My aunt and her family stayed for an extra day to make sure she was okay.
By Wednesday, life had become more calm, at least for me. My mother and brothers were busy with school and the after-school musical. This was the day I needed to de-stress. After all the pent-up anxiety from everything that was happening in California, my nerves were constantly tense. I felt afraid and nervous. Wednesday, I finally allowed myself to relax.
Sometime in between the day I found out my grandfather was dying, and the day I flew to Michigan, I stopped stressing about the death and began to view this trip as a welcome relief from the crises I had faced in California. I was looking forward to the comfort of home, even though it was not the home I had built in Chicago, I recognized Michigan as a place where I could be surrounded by family I had previously shunned (and now adored) and as a place where I could attain some peace of mind.
I'm not sure if I really found that there or if I ever will. I was certainly filled with sadness, not the kind you'd expect from seeing someone die, but the kind where you wish things had been so much different.
I hope... when I die... I have lived a life that makes people say wonderful things about me. I hope they will not struggle to find good memories. I hope they are sad because I am gone, and not because I was.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Things That Have Gone Wrong
July 27th -- We pick up the truck and begin our journey to California. And the person who agreed to sublet our apartment skips out on us, leaving us unable to do ANYTHING as we no longer have access to a computer until we arrive in California 4 days later. Because of Art, we lost $630. We still have not found anyone to rent the apartment. (Note: We never do, and the property company eventually sues us for about $1,000 for rent for the month of September and half of October, as well as keeping the security deposit)
July 30 -- We arrive at our new place only to find out the bathroom is being remodeled and is not complete. We have to pay for a motel for the night. The bathroom is not complete (by which I mean with a functional shower, sink, and toilet) until the following Monday, the 3rd.
July 31 -- The shelving on the wall collapses and falls, leaving several holes in the wall. Our alcoholic landlord is laid off from his job.
August 1 -- After all day driving around in a rental truck and checking out vehicles, we buy a car.
August 3 -- We take the car to the DMV to get registered. Wait 2 hours. Need to get a smog check done, but otherwise we have a temporary registration. I apply for my California license, but find out I need to take a written test. Since we've waited 2 hours, there is no longer time to take the test. I will have to return in the morning.
August 4 -- We return to the DMV. I fail the test the first time, but pass the second. They give me a sheet of paper and punch a hole through my Illinois license so I no longer have a functional ID. And I have to get on a plane in a few hours. We go get the car tested by the smog guy. It fails. We call the guy we bought the car from and he agrees to pay for the car to get fixed. I get on a plane (It is fortunate that I have a passport which I use for ID I don't know what I would have done otherwise).
August 4-7 -- I'm in Seattle for Americorps training, where I learn that nothing can be done about my Sallie Mae loans (I will have to pay $150 every 3 months for a forbearance, or $230 a month in interest-only payments, or $440 a month to pay off principle and interest), that I am one of the only VISTAs in Orange County who is not receiving a housing stipend, and that the car has been fixed and failed the smog test again. Will takes the car to another tester and it passes. But there goes another $60.
August 8-9 -- Racist Ron spends all day getting wasted and then proceeds to completely insult me and everything I'm trying to do. I find out that he is an ex-con, is stealing materials from his old workplace and selling them, and thinks that I can't make decisions for myself.
August 10 -- I start work.
August 17 -- We finally register the car.
August 18 -- I am kept awake until past midnight (have to work in the morning) because Ron is screaming at Ronnie (who is not even in the same room) about finding a job. Ron continues to blast music late into the night.
August 20 -- Ronnie requests a ride from Ron to his friend's get-together at a diner. Because Ron is obviously intoxicated, I offer to drive Ronnie there. Regardless of his physical state, Ron leaves later on in the evening to go buy more beer.
August 21 -- I learn that my asthma is not covered under my medical plan because it is a pre-existing condition. They will cover my prescription, but I cannot renew my prescription without going to the doctor first, and I cannot go to the doctor unless I have the money. So I will continue to face asthma attacks until we have money. If they get bad enough, my medical plan will cover an ER visit.
August 22 -- Will cancels his show because we can't find enough people to come. We decide to go to my coworker's birthday party. We drive around for 3 hours because we cannot find the street the party is being held at, and she's not picking up her phone. Finally, we decide to just go home.
August 23 -- Will & I get in a fight. I have a nervous breakdown and spend the whole day in bed, crying, and sleeping.
August 24 -- Will is rear-ended by some woman while he stopped at a red light.
August 28 -- I am finally fed up with living in a virtual hell and write to the VISTA state office, begging to be able to find a new place to live, begging to be able to work another job or something in order to live in a housing unit that is not completely dangerous.
August 30 -- Ron gets completely wasted and angry and sneaks around our bedroom window in order to spy on us. We pretend to be asleep.
August 31 -- I go into work, where my boss has been sent my e-mail to the VISTA state office. That night Will & I are emergency re-located to her mother's house. My boss's roommate joins us on the moving efforts to prevent Ron from doing anything violent. In this process, we have lost $200 on the deposit and gained much anxiety.
September 9 -- Will & I find a place we like and apply for it but we're subsequently denied and not told why nor did they tell us at all that we were denied in the first place, leading to another scramble to find an apartment. I get frustrated with Will because he doesn't seem to care about finding a place and doesn't have work, so I have to go to work and look for an apartment and it upsets me.
September 19 -- We sign a lease on the new place and spend the entire day moving out. All the money I received in AmeriCorps reimbursements for moving out to California has to go toward a deposit on the apartment and first month's rent, so I am still saddled with debt. The rental truck is also only available from far away from where we live, so we're stuck with additional moving fees for every additional miles. Total moving expenses: $80 for the truck, $1600 total rent and deposits.
September 21 -- We try to turn on our gas and electric, only to find out that to turn on both services, we must pay a "deposit" totaling $120. These deposits, apparently, are for people who struggle to pay their bills, so this ensures the extra money is on hand. Another incidence of a "poor tax" in California.
September 22 -- I call AT&T to have our internet service reinstated at our new address, only to find out Verizon has a monopoly on the Long Beach area. I am forced to subscribe to their services, despite absolute shit customer service and billing.
October 10 -- We find Moxie, in what appears to be a new stroke of good luck despite unfortunate circumstances. Unfortunately, unfortunate circumstances continue, and Moxie proceeds to infest the other two cats with fleas.
October 15 -- My birthday. I stupidly go to work, where the founder and resident idiot of the nonprofit holds a meeting with several of the new employees. Unfortunately, instead of having a productive meeting, we simply describe what it is we intend to do when we finally get around to doing it. Chet then proceeds to insult me and Laura by telling the others not to worry, as there is a "steep learning curve." He continues to imply we're morons in a grandfatherly tone.
October 16 -- I go to Planned Parenthood to get my birth control renewed. I wait for 5 hours in the waiting room while Planned Parenthood insists my health care plan doesn't cover their services, and if I want their services I need to pay over $200 up front. I call my health care provider in tears, and they say there's no reason PP should have said that and I am indeed, covered. Finally, PP decides that I am covered, and proceeds to force me into taking a pregnancy test, even though the odds of me being pregnant (considering the kind of BC I am on) is very low. The doctors refuse to even look at my medical records, despite my old PP nicely photocopying them for ease of use, and forget to give me back my medical card. I order a new one later on. As the doctor gives me the shot, I cry some more. She seems surprised that I am upset at all. I go home and cry some more, and then Will makes me a cheesecake for my birthday and we go to see Where the Wild Things Are, even though by this point I'm pretty much miserable with everything and cry during the movie as well. I am actually happy that no one came to the movie theater with us, because I am emotionally incapable of handling any other people at this time.
October 17 -- I find out Verizon, rather than send me a bill, automatically deducted nearly $60 from my checking account and had I not noticed in time, would have overdrafted my account. I'm able to transfer money from my savings account in time, but am livid that they did that without even sending a bill.
October 19 -- I call Verizon to complain about the money being deducted and they tell me there is no way for them to send me a physical bill. I have to log onto my online account to be able to read it. So I tell them I cannot log on... they make excuses, a fight ensues, and eventually I get so fed up that I demand to cancel the services. They try to slam me with a $75 cancellation fee and I demand to speak with a supervisor, so incredibly livid at this point that they decide not to charge me (fuck you very much) and I switch to another internet provider that still sucks but not quite as bad.
November 7 -- My father calls to let me know my grandfather is in the hospital and his prospects don't look good. Doctors give him a week or two to live.
November 10 -- My mother writes me an e-mail letting me know my Aunt Irene is in the hospital as well from cardiac arrest. Her blood won't coagulate and her blood pressure will not regulate itself. She is non-responsive. Later that evening, she passes away.
November 19 -- Last day of in-service training. I come down with a wicked fever and spend the next few days in bed. Our friend Brian, from Chicago, also decides to spontaneously move out to LA. Not the type to leave someone homeless, Will & I take him in. After they pick me up from training, they notify me that they put the car through yet another accident despite the fact that we don't have insurance (still! can't afford it!). This time, the front bumper has a crack in it. Will says we need more brake fluid. (Great, with what money?)
November 20 -- Will loses his job. I wonder how I'm going to be able to support THREE people on my shoddy stipend. What a laugh, this stipend has become. AmeriCorps really doesn't need to worry about keeping ME in poverty, the world is doing a fine enough job on its own!
November 22 -- Will succumbs to the fever. His great-grandmother also is hospitalized with pneumonia.
I can't go on like this anymore.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
My Vendettas
I hate street sweepers. Every Tuesday and Wednesday, I have to search for parking because half the street is getting cleaned between 4 a.m. and 8 a.m. (Why not noon? Most people are at work then!) and there is SOMETIMES a rare 8 a.m. to 9 a.m. sweeping, but those spots get taken quick, along with the other streets.
Last week I thought I had found a spot ("holy crap! this street side gets swept on THURSDAY!") only to find out the next morning via parking ticket #4 that I could not park there between 7 a.m. and 9 a.m. weekdays. Impedes the flow of traffic, apparently.
Parking is so damn hard that I attempted to squeeze in behind an SUV and some trash cans, only to receive parking ticket #3 for parking two inches into a red zone. I have a damn Geo Metro. The car is only like 5 feet long anyway, give me a damn inch!
What bugs me most is that the street doesn't even look clean. Last week, during a routine okay-let's-get-up-early-to-move-the-car-for-an-hour drive, I happened to park in an area right before the sweeper got there. Seeing the sweeper down the block, I decided to drive around the block and park there as soon as it had finished. So... I drive around, and return. And what do I see in the road?
Garbage. The same garbage that had been there before the street was swept. Oh, and a long streak of something (water?? looked too gross) on the pavement.
Frankly, it's pretty damn irritating to have to constantly worry about parking and parking tickets, when the streets are just as clean as the alleys, which don't get swept at all.
Can I sue yet? Or do I just have to keep paying these fines for this broke-ass state as the poor get punished for the mistakes of their politicians?
Yeah, I said it. Rich people can afford their own damn parking spaces.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
There is a serious misconception people have about children. This whole notion of unconditional love is wrong. Children do not love. They do not know how to love. They must learn how to love or they will not. You cannot have children and expect to be loved unless you are able to love them.
I know this because I watch my cats and their varying degree of affection toward me. I feel great love toward them, yet they cannot fully love me because they do not have trust. After trust, love. I do not ever expect them to just love me. They will never just choose to do so before they trust me. And for them to be able to trust me, I must show unconditional love toward them.
This is how it works.
This is why I am afraid I will not have unconditional love for my children.
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