DIARY OF A MIDDLE-CLASS COLLEGE GRAD

Diary of a Middle-Class College Grad

So, I've decided to start what I hope to be a series about being a middle-class college grad. At lease my version of what it's like. For one, I know I'm not the only one. In fact, that will be one of my main focuses...there's an ass-load of us. Secondly and as I've said before on here, it's free therapy. Now that's two Middle Class College Grad points. Things needing to be free to accessed by us, since we neither qualify for public aid, nor do we have any actual money, let alone disposable income. And therapy. That one requires no explanation.

I will do this in sections. It's been nine years since I've graduated undergrad. It would be too long and and not as much fun to do this all in one shot.

Chapter ONE
I suppose some background is required.
I come from a middle-class family. My mother had me as a teenager and so we were not always middle-class. When I was very young we were in need of public aid, but that was very brief. My mom worked her ass off waiting tables and going to college. She continued on to educate herself beyond a master's degree and by the time I was ten or eleven we were middle-class. I needed for nothing. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends of my mother took very good care of me and offered her emotional and babysitting support. I'm sure the occasional loan was extended in emergency situations, but from what I've been able to gather, was always repaid as promised. I was a good kid. Well behaved and eager to please. As A child I was into martial arts, sports, singing, and dreaming about being a superstar. I had one hell of an imagination. I think that's not uncommon for only children of single parents. They're busy making sure we eat and have heat in the winter time. We've got to entertain ourselves some how. In addition to the sports, singing The Sound of Music soundtrack to myself, and daydreaming, I spent a lot of time with my grandfather at An east coast, sort of impressive, university's basketball and football games. This university bares significance because my grandfather attended and played football there. My grandmother worked there. And several of my aunts and uncles got their undergraduate degrees, grad degrees, and law degrees there. Add that to my daydream list. Attending preppy east coast legacy school one day.

My mother was single until she remarried when I was somewhere around eleven. She married a man she met while waiting tables; a coworker. They had a son when I was 15, he had an affair when I was 18 and they divorced before I was 19. It was a super-swell time for all.

I was an average to below average high school student. My grades sucked. I was a decent athlete. I had a good group of friends and a very sweet and handsome boyfriend. I filled out two college applications (Preppy east coast legacy school was not one of them. I figured I had zero chance of getting in at this point). Both because they were pretty thin and had a small or no application fees. I never discussed college or my future with my mother. In fact when I got my acceptance letters I chose my school based on the fact that my uncle had once given me a sweatshirt from there. I liked the colors and it was on the other side of the state. So it was going away to college...but I could drive home in 5-6 hours if need be.

It will be right here that I mention the I went to college in 1996. Long before the Predatory Lending Act. This will come into play later. But for those of you who don't know or don't remember, this meant that it was perfectly legal to offer college students free t-shirts in exchange for filling out credit card applications. Then these college students were approved and sent credit cards. Whether or not they had a job/income and whether or not they understood the terms and conditions. I was not one of those college students who had parents who served as cash cows. I took out loans for tuition, room and board, and my mother deposited $20.00 a week into my checking account. I didn't have a car. I didn't have a cell phone (until 2002). I went to college in a rural town. My options were to work at Subway, McDonalds, or one of the 10 small business in town. In a tiny college town you basically have to be grandfathered into one of those jobs. The other option was to leave town to work. No car. Rural area. No leaving town. But as I said. None of this mattered. Credit cards all around!

I graduated college in 2000...with a degree in the arts. Super. I got a job working for the country's leading vitamin a supplement retailer and played the part of townie for a few months. I finally, minimally wised-up and moved back home to the other side of the state. Back to my middle-class home...which at that point had become upper-middle class. I lived there for a couple of months, having had transferred within my company to a location near my mother's house. I borrowed my grandmother's car to get to and from work and took a second job clerking at my aunt's law firm. I wisely [insert sarcastic tone] got a dog upon graduating and found that he and my mother's dog did not get along. I accepted an invitation to move into my aunt and uncle's home with their two young daughters and was now living in an upper-class home in an upper to upper-upper-class neighborhood. Shortly there after my aunt and uncle came to know about my huge credit card debt and balance owed to my undergraduate university (i still don't fully understand how that happened) which kept me from receiving my transcripts or diploma. Very generously my aunt and uncle loaned me the money to pay off my debt. They also co-signed on getting me a cell phone. This was well above and beyond the duties of a family member and I will be forever grateful. That summer I left the vitamin and clerking businesses and I took a job teaching theatre at a summer camp (post-graduation job #3). I had also decided that I was going to apply to graduate school at Preppy east coast legacy school for my master's degree in theatre. The real world had me in a complete panic. I lived comfortably in a cushy suburb, had my nice summer job teaching rich people's kid's theatre games, and was crossing my fingers that my 2.34 gpa and mediocre GRE scores would be over-looked because of my family's relationship with the university. They were. I received an acceptance letter from the university with post-it notes on it from staff members I had known growing up, welcoming me and telling me they couldn't wait to see me. So, I was teaching theatre and was finally going to my family's legacy school. I has also picked up a part-time job nannying for the sweetest family in the tri-state area, three mornings a week. Three year old boy, two-year old girl, and 4 month old boy. I sang him to sleep for his mid-morning nap every day that I was with him. Desperado (the Linda Ronstadt version, not Don Henley, of course) was his favorite. I loved all three of them very much. Things were looking good...

Time Out of College: 1 year, 2 months
Student Loan Debt: $25,000.00
Family Debt: $6,000.00
Other Debt: $0.00
Failed Long-Term Relationships: 3
Post-Grad Jobs to Date: 4
Conversations With My Father Since The Age Of Eleven: 2

Checking In

Hello y'all!
I've gotten 3 emails and one AIM asking me why I don't blog anymore (now mind you, I'm pretty sure those 4 people are ALL of my readers, but still.). I honestly don't have much of a reason, except that I can't really think of anything to say. My life has been weird for the last several months. I moved. Got a crazy code violating landlord. Moved again. Finished the quarter at school. Started the summer quarter. Got SUPER fat. Have pledged to sell out. Was diagnosed with Celiac Disease and still think it's a mistake. And hit the $200,000.00 mark for my student loans. Don't worry. None of it is as serious as it sounds. Mostly I've been observing/learning. "Observing/learning what?", you may ask. Ah, well allow me to answer you.

*Ahem*

• Unless you are holding money in your hand, act as though is doesn't exist.
• I like the show Two and a Half Men and I'm not ashamed to admit it.
• I like Lady Gaga and I am ashamed to admit it.
• Some part of me, deeeep, deep down still believes that I TOO can be Elle Woods.
• Self-deprecation is super in. People love to say they're assholes and tell the world how unsavory of a character they are. I blame Tucker Max.
• I'm a huge asshole and not of good character.
• I used to like children. I don't anymore.
• I used to like puppies. I don't anymore.
• If someone gave me a huge chunk of money and told me I could either feed 100 orphans or get skinny people surgery, I'd get the surgery. I'd rather be a dick than fat. Sadly, I am now both.
• I think my girlfriend is the most beautiful woman in the world. Now, I know this is impossible. What would the most beautiful person in the world be doing with me? But still, it's what I think.
• I'd do pretty much anything to get rid of some of my student loans. I'd even join an armed force. Alas, they may not ask but I sure as hell will tell.
• My least favorite chore is kitty litter.
• I love Family Guy. It makes me happy(ish).
• I have some really brave and tough friends, who have a stronger will than I’ll ever have. Jesus, some of them can bounce!
• I'm lazy, spoiled, and entitled. After carefully scrutinizing my life it is clear that every problem I have is my fault. Fortunately, much of it can be corrected or salvaged, if I stop being so lazy, spoiled, and entitled.
• My family is amazing. My aunts and uncles are insanely accomplished and noble. My cousins are all so smart and talented and are sure to take over the world.
• I'm getting a new baby sibling around Christmas. That's gonna be 5. Now I can say things like, "I am the oldest of 6." Makes me sound like Matt from 7th Heaven...kinda...cause we're only 6. But still.
• Changing your name is annoying. Even 2 years later. It can do things like mess up your passport/travel plans, causing you to miss your flight, trip, and friend of 18 years wedding. neato.
• I have yet to figure out what makes a kitty litter "for multiple cats". They all seem the same to me.
• No seriously, though...why can't I be Elle Woods?
• I've noticed that life is about money. I'm not saying that money makes people happy, but all of the seemingly happy people I know have some. All of the people considering mixing their Klonopin (yes, everyone is on it) and booze until they are comatose, don't.
• I wish Buffy and Gilmore Girls were still on. Those shows made me happy.
• Being a social worker sucks. I feel like any social worker who tells you otherwise is full of shit. Now, I pretty much knew this when I was getting into it, but now I know for sure. Where the hell is my six figure salary for having such a shitty, high risk (gang bangers, addicts, rapist, and other unsavory folks) "helping profession" job?
• I think rapists should receive the same sentence as 2nd and 1st degree murderers (using the same premeditated vs. not, criteria), because they, in essence, have killed a person.
• I HATE the reverend Al Sharpton.
• Papa Joe Jackson is a monster.
• The 30s (even though this is only my 1st year in my 30s) are WAY different than the 20s. Anything past 24 is just not a good idea.
• That's pretty much all I've come up with over the last few months. None of it is groundbreaking, but it's all I've got so far.

Love? Lust? Lesbian? Later!...

Peace out L-Word!

It's been...weird. But I sorta feel the need to thank you. I guess personally, your exsistance was perfectly fitting. Something with which I could connect. A group of lezzies that I pretty much hate, but can't stop wanting to watch. A bunch of women whom I can't decide whether I want to punch or fu**. Cheers, L-Word! Call me sometime.

*check out my buddy, Brita's Random Rants (in my favorite blogs) to get the rundown.

Social Workers are people too???

They forgot to mention this part at orientation...they also left out the part where we will continue to care about people in our personal lives too...and sometimes shitty things happen to them.

“Vicarious Trauma

Strong emotions are a normal part of working with and/or knowing victims of crime. Victim assistance professionals…should expect to have their own emotions unbalanced at times. As victims unburden themselves with tales of horrific experiences, healers absorb some of the pain. In effect, they become witnesses to the traumatic experience. [Those in helping professions] may become subject to compassion fatigue, also known as burnout. In some cases, they risk an even more serious danger:

vicarious or secondary trauma...

Symptoms
Vicarious trauma is a stress reaction that may be experienced by victim assistance professionals who are exposed to disclosures of traumatic images and events by those seeking help. Helping professionals may experience long-lasting changes in how they view themselves, others, and the world.The symptoms of vicarious trauma are similar to, but usually not as severe as, those of post traumatic stress disorder, and can affect the lives and careers of even those with considerable training and experience in working with disaster and trauma survivors. They may include—
Intrusions such as flashbacks or nightmares.
Avoidance, in which the person tries to reduce exposure to the people or situations that might bring on his or her intrusive symptoms.
Hyperarousal or physical symptoms such as hypervigilance, sleeplessness, or increased startle response.

Risk Factors
Factors that increase the risk of vicarious trauma include—
Unexpected or repeated exposure to trauma.
The degree of empathy that a victim assistance professional or loved one feels for the victim's suffering.
Unresolved emotional issues.

Prevention and Response
It is crucial for those who work with or are personally connected to victims to find ongoing support systems for themselves, and to identify situations that may trigger unresolved emotional issues and refer such cases to a colleague. Often, simply acknowledging the effect on one that others' pain has can be one of the best coping mechanisms. The victim assistance community also may be able to provide support by using established debriefing techniques. Finally, for those who are exposed to a mass victimization, participation in a well-run critical incident stress debriefing (CISD) may be helpful.”

For the record, that last part never really happens...or let's say rarely, to be safe. Some feel it makes them weak and/or selfish to tap into that...but oddly would never feel that a friend or colleague who accessed that resource was weak or selfish. Weird.

Dear Friend

Dear Friend,

If I were to talk to you in person I’d have no idea what to say to you. Because there’s nothing to say. I’m sure so many people have told you they love you and that they’ll be there in anyway you need them to be. I’m sure they mean it and I’m sure you believe them. But really beyond that, we’re powerless. I’m powerless to do anything that could be even remotely healing. I guess mostly because you’d never let me, but still. It is my job to heal people. I do it (or at least I try to) everyday. Then at the end of the day, I lock up my files securely (it’s the law) I tidy my desk (well, sometimes), and I head for the bus/train. And I leave it there. All of their pain and fear is in my office. Locked in my filing cabinets. I read my books and text my friends and listen to my music on the way home. And I don’t think about them until I return to the office the next day. I come home nearly every day to the sweetest greeting. A tiny little man whose head comes up to my waist jumps into my arms and squeezes me with all of his strength around my neck and kisses me with these funny kisses where he puckers so tightly it’s laughable. You’d really have to see it to know what I’m talking about. And while all this is happening I’m bombarded by wagging tales…all before I can even put my bag down. Sounds annoying. It’s not. I guess that’s what it is to be loved. We make dinner and read books. We sing a lot. We play the piano and the guitar and we watch the SAME DAMN MOVIE, OVER AND OVER AGAIN. Then bath time. A few small arguments and power struggles. Cuddle on the couch, and then to bed. Then I try to create some order in the house by collecting all of the match box cars, puzzle pieces, and single socks that have been strewn about the house all day,

Now it’s me time. I can watch grown-up shows and read books without pictures. Take a shower (maybe). Get on the internet. It all sounds small, but trust me when you have to schedule them, they become a big deal. There’s the downside: Money. Time management. Feeling suffocated sometimes. Just plain wanting to go to the bathroom by yourself! But it still ends up being worth it. This is pretty much my life, with small variations from day to day. It may mean that I’m cold, but I never bring the suffering of my clients home with me. I thought myself to be an expert on removing myself from issues that are not my own and knowing that there are very few things that are within my control. I believed that was a strength of mine in my field. And then there was you. I’m so sad for you. And scared for you. And hurt for you. Pain, anger, fear…today they ate dinner with us, took a bath with us, watched us sing our songs. They will read our books with us and will be going to bed with me. They’re not welcome in my home and yet they rudely refuse my demands to depart. The thing is if I know one thing about you it is that you are a survivor. I have no doubt about that. The only reasonable thing I can come up with is that I am selfish. How dare I cry and mourn and rage and panic over what is yours? I can’t stand myself right now. I can’t stand how I expect someone to console me. To make me understand. To make me feel safe and strong.

And I can’t stand how all I can do is say that I love you. I have since the day you called my name from the patio at Starbucks. And it’s so not enough and seemingly mundane to say, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you’ve been hurt and then again by being failed by the very thing you’ve committed your heart, soul, and life to. And I wish I could help. I wish I could tell some sort of joke that would make you laugh until your side hurt, or perform some gesture that would make you feel warm and loved. You’re so special to me. You always will be. I guess the selfish part of me is begging you not to disappear. I don’t mean physically (though I don’t want that either), but I mean you. The woman who has made me laugh harder than I’ve ever laughed before, pissed me off more than I ever been pissed off, made me involuntarily hold my breath just by feeling you. The woman who unselfishly took time out of her day on more than one occasion to take care of me because I was having a bad day is not someone who I can stand to lose. I have no right to ask this of you. It’s none of my business. This is your life and you will do what you please. But I wanted to tell you what knowing you means to me and how my heart breaks for you having had this experience. Remember, summer will be here before we know it. Your hair always looks so pretty in the sun.

Love always, unconditionally,
rem

This Is EXTRA Not Ok...

This is not ok…

It is -20 degrees with wind the chill factor outside…I am therefore, trapped. I cannot find the remote and I have one of those cable box things that doesn’t have buttons on it or anything. I can’t change the channel. There is a Jonathan Taylor Thomas Christmas movie on. This Is Not Ok.

The Upside: Jessica Biel is in the movie.

This Is Not Ok...

"Like many, I find the holidays to be stressful…the impending doom of financial demise, nightmarish travel, being a social worker during this time (there's LOTS going on there), and of course, FAMILY TIME, kinda makes me want to scratch my eyes out…or someone else's. But it isn't really cool to ruin other people's holidays just because you're not into it. It's a downer. I find it's best to find other outlets to purge the ick and spare the population of your (my) poison. So as an alternative to hurling myself off of the LaSalle St. Bridge, I think I will instead address my most recent annoyances in this next installment of This Is Not Ok. Maybe people just don't know what's not ok. So let's make it a fair and level playing field. Per usual, I will point out things that are not ok, and there. I've said it. Now you know. Additionally, maybe there are those who can now relate. Perhaps all we need is to communicate better. Perhaps we will create unity around things that are not ok! And we can go out into the world defeating the Not Oks, making it a better place (for me)! And isn't that what the holidays are about? Unity? Bringing people together? Me? To begin…The newest in This Is Not Ok…

· The lovey-dovey make out couple across from me on the train last night. I don't just find you annoying, I ACTUALLY hate you. Hate is strong word…and I hate you.
· Audible yawning.
· Big, fat, wide public yawns without covering your mouth.
· Throwing shoes at our president. He sucks. Badly. But you can't really throw your shoe at him. It's insulting to the US. Plus, what if it were something more deadly? I mean…look at our back-up plan. If anyone can do a lot of damage in a month it's THAT GUY!
· My parents. Just trust me on this one.
· Work parties. WHY do I have to go to these things?
· Law Students. Sorry baby, it's just…well, not ok. It's not your fault. I'm pretty sure law school blows.
· Status dating. Gross.
· The "77threeee-20twoooo-Lunaaaaaa" song.
· The "800-5eeeeight-eeeeight, 23hundreeed, Empiiiiiiiiire…" song.
· Public transportation riding, ring-tone testers.
· The Clark bus.
· High School kids on the Clark bus…and the redline…and the Halsted bus…
· Shows about finding out who is the father. I feel like that may just be a private matter.
· My dog, Sonny. He's a real jerkface.
· President-elect Obama STILL asking me for money. I don't have any. That's part of the reason I voted for you.
· Anne S. moving away. That was super, not ok.
· My future children. Trust me…it's a pretty safe bet.
· Rod Blagojevich. He is UBER-not ok.
· The name Rod.
· My student loan debt.
· The View.
· Regis and Kelly.
· Regis.
· Kelly.
· Proposition 8.
· That I talk to my ex's. Jesus, I'm a pussy.
· Graduate school. It's a hassle and you're not actually guaranteed to make more money.
· The temperature in my office. Why am I wearing a scarf and a hat inside?
· People who make fun of street performers. You try it, asshole.
· The fact that at this very moment I am both hungry AND fat. What's a girl to do?
· How much OTHER people's weddings cost me…and I can't even have one to get back at them someday.
· Madonna's accent.
· Serving sizes on cereals. Yeah right. For a butterfly.
· That I have to be at work for six more hours and can't handle the thought of six more minutes.
· That Starbucks doesn't deliver. The whole reason I need coffee is because I'm tired and can't move yet. p.s. It's REALLY cold out! Bring it to me.
· Crotch tattoos.
· Me…for once dating someone with a crotch tattoo…to be fair the tattoo came after we had already begun dating. But still…
· To expand on one of my previous points; a dog who eats my underpants. Underpants don't grow on trees!
· The word underpants…though I prefer it to "panties." Panties is a pervert word.
· People who dump you during the holiday season. Very uncool and somewhat traumatizing…creating yet ONE MORE negative connotation to the holiday season. Neat-o.
· The amount of times I can watch Little Women and still cry every time Beth dies. SHUT UP! That Claire Danes is very convincing!
· The amount of times I've watched (will watch) Little Women.

Whelp…that oughta do it for now. Mind you, that's just what came to me in this sitting. There will be more to come in the next installment of This Is Not Ok (aka Free Therapy). Feel free to add to it…you may even attempt to defend yourself if you feel you've been called out…just make sure I don't know where you live or that you operate under a pseudo name…OOH! Stay tuned for This is Awesome! #1. The phrase "pseudo name" and people who pronounce it as pseudonym…with a British accent."

Tattoo You

So, um...I just...well, see...this. I...this is not ok.

What's werid is that a certain coach I once had used to call us monkey asses. Turns out I'm not one.

At Last. My Love Has Come Along...

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!! I CAN'T GET OVER IT! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

FREE MONEY!!!

Free money, huh? My ship has finally come in!!! Here I am just checking my morning email...expecting some threats from companies to whom I owe money and I find this! I can FINALLY breathe easily. Man I can't wait to give this guy my private mobile, telephone, and fax numbers for easy communication! Read on and get on board! FREE MONEY! RISK FREE! It's true. He says so himself. Now remember, keep it on the DL. It's super top-secret.

"From:MR FRED SIBAYA No.54 Palm Groove,
Braafontein
Johannesburg
South Africa Tel/Fax+0027 86 529 0021 Dear Sir,
I am MR.FRED SIBAYA from Zimbabwe the first Son of MR JOHN SIBAYA, who was murdered in the land dispute in Zimbabwe by the agents of the ruling government of President ROBERT MUGABE, you must have heard his alleged support and sympathy for the opposition MDC PARTY led by the minority white farmers. My Father was among the few black Zimbabwean rich farmers murdered in cold blood by the war veterans backed by the government.
Before the death of my Father, he deposited the sum of US$12M (Twelve Million United State Dollars) With one of the security company in Southern Africa, as if he knew the looming danger in ZIMBABWE. The money was deposited as a gem and precious stones to avoid much attraction from the security firm. The money was earmarked for the purchase of new machinery and chemicals for the farms and the establishment of new farms in Lesotho and Swaziland before the regretted incident. This Land problem arose when President Robert Mugabe introduced a new land act. Which wholly affects the white rich farmers and some few blacks vehemently condemned the "Modus operandi" adopted by the government. This resulted to rampart killing and Mob actions.
My mother and I are staying in South Africa now as Asylum seekers, which have not been beneficial to us; I have decided to transfer this money to a foreign country where we can invest it. I am faced with the dilemma of investing this amount of money in South Africa for fear of encountering the same experience in future since both countries have the same political policy and also law does not permit us to investment hence we’re refugees. I must let you know that this business is 100% risk free. I and my family have agreed to give you 20% of the total US12M, 5% will be mapped out for all expenses that maybe incurred during the transfer 5% for any charity organization and 70% will be for me and my family’s investment in your country.
Therefore if you are willing and interested to render the needed assistance, endeavour to reply through fredsibaya0@gmail.com for more brief clarifications. I also need your private mobile, telephone and fax numbers for easy communication. Remember; this is highly confidential and the success of this business depends on how secret it is kept. Expecting your reply soonest.
Best regards,
MR.FRED SIBAYA (FOR THE FAMILY) "

Now what the heck are you waiting for? Get your free money!

Oh, How Far We've Come!!!

Dear "Friend" of mine who is sending around an email with a subject line that reads "FBI uncovers plot to trap Obama", that when opened shows a picture of a box with a watermelon in it, held up by a stick with a string attached to it (the kind that will trap something when pulled. i.e. a rabbit or squirrel),


You're not even a little bit funny. You're fucking racist. May your daughters breed with handsome and intelligent men of color, and may their beautiful, successful, well-adjusted off-spring dance on your grave. Asshole.

Here, I got a pic for you:Love,
rem

The WAWA Sisterhood!

Dear Jenny,

DUDE! It's your birthday! Ever since that beautiful day when you gazed into my eyes and said, "Dude, if you try to make me munch box we can't be friends." you have been the Tango to my Cash. The Laverne to my Shirley. The Cage to my Jack. And other gay-ass shit. You've withstood threats on your mother from mine. Meriwether family Christmas trees, Letters of Dismissal, Leo the Dick, Laura, ME, my break ups, me "reeeeeally meaning it this time!", you brought donuts to my grandmother's funeral (and came to the church way early b/c I had to be there way early...I really loved my grandmother. You got that without making me say it and sound like a pussy), and SOOOOOOOO much more.

You think that singing in a person's face in a car ride is ok. More than ok. It is expected. You know that me going home means I'm actually going to your house while I stop by my mom's a few times. You pretty much just assume you're picking me up from the airport. You never complain about it. You gave me your green shirt when I moved away. You stopped talking to me for a REALLY long time the year I forgot your birthday, and I wasn't all THAT concerned because I knew we'd eventually be fine again. That's how we are. I'm sure that you love me. You and only one other person (actual statistic). You've ridden out my career changes. And you make me laugh. We both think the other person is funnier. I'm right. And you too believe that posing for weird pictures is the right thing to do. You too believe that food IS therapy...especially since if it's from WAWA. And you fully support my idea to move to the fictional town of Stars Hollow.

This could go on forever. What it really comes down to is that it's awesome how we're awesome.
To the WAWA sisterhood!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DUDE!

-rem

p.s. remember how this time last year we spent the day in court shaking our heads at my brother in disbelief??? BEST. BIRTHDAY. EVER!

well, hello there...

Hi. I think I’ll dust off my blog again and see what happens. To all of my reader who messaged me a few times asking me to start er’ up…well, thanks! Here goes:

I…well...ok so I don’t really have anything to say and I don’t know why I chose tonight to get going again. Um…I could just update you and we’ll start from there.

Let’s see…um…my job and school are stressful, I have too many pets and a baby is moving in with me on Saturday…like pretty much almost perminantly-ish. I’m like almost a mom-type person. Which is pretty much a bad idea. I still fall asleep with my contacts in, curse at the television when the Bears play, leave the iron on, forget to pay my cable bill, think that writing papers while drinking is ok, hate cleaning, HATE my alarm clock, love the wrong people, have holes in my socks, am raising a puppy (and by raising it I mean yelling at it for pooping on the floor b/c I need to wait until the Gilmore Girls rerun I’ve seen several times and have on dvd is over before I take him out) and am planning on faking my death and moving to Tuscany to avoid paying back my student loans. But I love baby…so I guess I’ll do…ok(???) Let’s see…what else, I’m a vegetarian again. I even hate my own self for that. But it gives me room to make sure people know how much better I am than them. Now instead of telling people who smoke that smoking can kill them, I can tell people who eat meat about the meat industry and how meat was once alive. I find it to be a real eye opener. Most people have no idea that their steak came from a cow. I do what I can, you know; saving the world one pretentious, passive-aggressive comment at a time.

I’m dating someone. We get along and don’t think the other person is always lying to us. I guess that’s pretty good. I found out my ex HATES me. Whatever. The CTA has gotten worse. The hope for the country’s future has gotten better. Soy turkey is surprisingly good. Jewel coffee is unsurprisingly bad (I bought the economy size and am going to attempt to anonymously leave it in my office kitchen). I got a bowflex. I haven’t used it. I’ve decided that law students are intolerable. My brother turned one this week. I left my mittens in the bathroom and Nordstrom’s and am REALLY pissed about it. My friend’s are pretty cool. They got baby lots of stuff. I’m a happy person. I think that’s pretty strange but I’m going with it. I am over all of my ex’s. Either b/c they are fucking assholes who can’t get over themselves, or b/c I don’t really give a crap about them. Mostly the former. AANNND that’s it. We’re up to speed. So this week I will start er’ up for real. Thanks for the emails. I’ll try to go well with your morning coffee ;-)

"Why don't you ever blog anymore?"

Hey there.
Ok, so I've gotten a fair number of texts/IMs/emails/actual voice comments in conversations (i didn't know people still did that) asking me why I don't blog anymore or asking me when I'm going to blog again, and variations of the sort. First of all, thanks. That's super nice that anyone would ask me stuff about me and what I'm doing.

Second, I'm busy (for the record, when I first typed that I wrote "busty". I think that's funny.

And finally (I think we're on third) and most importantly, I don't really have anything to say. I don't have a blog that keeps people informed (like fannie, grace, and garvey). I have a "let me tell you what I think and feel" blog. Like Brita. I don't really feel all that interested in sharing my thoughts and feelings anymore. It works for some people. It most certainly does not work for me. I think I feel safest (smartest) when I keep those to myself. If that changes and I want to write something I will let all my reader know by putting my link under my IM name. Email me if you want my IM and don't have it.

Thanks,
rem

Comments?

Does anyone know where my comment thinggie is on my blog? I can't find it. I played with settings and now stuff is funky. I accept that I'm stupid. Now someone tell me the answer.

Humble Pie

I am a social worker. Like many professions we are governed by a code of ethics and we take an oath. It’s long, so I’ll just give you the gist. It a little diddy that goes a lil’ somethin’ like this:

“…The primary mission of the social work profession is to enhance human well-being and help meet the basic human needs of all people, with particular attention to the needs and empowerment of people who are vulnerable, oppressed, and living in poverty. A historic and defining feature of social work is the profession's focus on individual well-being in a social context and the well-being of society. Fundamental to social work is attention to the environmental forces that create, contribute to, and address problems in living…”

M’kay. So that’s my job and I guess I take it seriously or whatever. They call it a “helping profession.” Oh. So I guess I help people. In theory. But what about being helped? I must say that until recently I never really thought about it. I mean, why would anyone help me? For starters, I don’t need help. Further…well I can’t really imagine who’d want to help me. I’m very…average, and have been proven to be easily dismissed and disposable by people who I was sure cared for me. Cue the violins, right? Wrong. I’m actually a very content human being who really doesn’t think about that sorta thing unless asked to do so.
I have a point, I swear.

This leads me to my story. I must preface this with saying that I am seriously embarrassed to talk about this. It’s far too sharey. But I’m working on my humility, which ties into this story, so here goes.

Those of you who know me know that I am in my final year of graduate school. I decided to take a summer course. Like many I rely on student loans to get through school and when things go wrong with them…well as I have recently learned, that can be a bad thing. Not, “oh man there’s nothing on but Two and a Half Men reruns” bad. but like, “Oh man. My period is three weeks late” bad.

I’m going to make a VERY long story short so I can get to what matters here. My school fucked up my summer loan package so badly that my loan are now four weeks late and I am told won’t be here for another 6 days. It’s been a rough couple of weeks. I’ve been out of food for a while and so have my pets. We’ve actually been sharing what’s been left of my food. I’ve told a couple of close friends and was over-heard by one of my co-workers talking to my best friend from home, practically in tears. Now before this sounds like a pity-party, let’s get down to what’s really going on here.

This is not a story about my temporary poverty or my not so sharp financial aid dept. at school. So, starting about a week ago a few people found out about how bad this whole thing has gotten (for me. There are people in this world who are far worse off and it is not temporary, as my situation is. That is important to note.). And in the past week, this is what has happened:

Last week a co-worker dropped a month CTA pass on my desk and $15.00 and said in a deep Bosnian-war surviving-mom voice, “take this and don’t say a word. You will buy some food.” I peed a little. She’s scary and sounds like Dracula…and is one of the most loving humans I’ve ever met. My birthday was 2 days ago and the Saturday prior friends took me to eat and refused to let me pitch in a nickel (good. I don’t have one). On my birthday I got into work and there was a gift on my desk and a birthday note…and cookies. A different co-worker handed me money and said, “I didn’t have time to get your gift. Take this. Go buy pet food. It’s your birthday, you can’t say no.” Then my co-workers took me to lunch near my house, stuffed me and sent me home…I worked only two hrs that day. The night of my birthday my friends (one of whom is a relative of an ex and doesn’t even need to acknowledge me, let alone spoil and love me) got me pizza and cup cakes and watched my favorite dvds with me while we stared at the most perfect birthday gift ever, that they got me. Yesterday, my co-workers found another lame-ass excuse to take me to lunch despite my protests. My friend Anne sent me a birthday card with a note in it that made me feel for the 1st time in as long as I can remember that I might be worth being loved even though I fuck up so, SO much. I feel confident in saying that she is my friend and she loves me. And I don’t feel weird saying that. Yesterday my friend Donna took me to the movies and got me my favorite movie snack for a post-birthday, friend-date. Tonight my friend Kim took me for birthday drinks because she missed my birthday. But here is the kicker…I got a sudden knock on my door tonight and when I opened it there was my friend MSG and her gf with bags of groceries for me and my pets. Like, for real.

I didn’t ask a single one of these people to help me. I didn’t expect any of them to care that I felt frustrated and fearful. They just…helped me. I spend a lot of time thinking about who doesn’t love me and I risk missing the people who do. I don’t really think this was that good of a story, but it’s a true story. People helped me b/c they wanted to and because maybe some people think I matter. I didn’t know that. I hope I deserve it. So that’s my story about humble pie. Maybe it was more for me than it was for you. And yes. I cried when I wrote this. Maybe I’m getting old. I’m not sure what I think, but I do know that I’m catching myself in the middle of almost knowing something. I’ll let you know when I figure out what that is. Maybe it’s just a matter of trying to maintain whomever it is that those people think I am that compelled them to want to make me feel safe. Ok. I’m out of thoughts now. I’m going to bed. Wait. One more. I don’t remember the last time I told someone I loved them who’s not a baby or an animal. I…yeah. That’s all I got so far.

**POINT OF INTEREST: I was not drunk when I wrote this.

How I Deal With Car Doors

Now typically, as in pretty much always, wisdom and skill are bestowed upon me by those who are smarter, more experienced, more worldly, more talented, and just plain better than me. But today my friends; TODAY I get to give back. Today I will bestow upon you a gift from my bag of goodies. Ladies, gentlemen, and Garvey...I present to you…THE DE-DOORING URBAN-BIKER SIDEKICK.

Allow me to explain…

I have spent most of my life practicing martial arts. I have formally studied under some of the finest and highest ranked teachers in the United States and the world. I have trained and competed in Korean, Thai, and most recently Japanese styles. Now why am I telling you all of this (besides wanting everyone to think I'm super-duper awesome and wish they were me)? Due to this extensive training I have found that I have many physical reactions to situations that are immediate and automatic at this point. It's as though they are innate (and yes everyone smarter than me ((all of you)) I know it's not ACTUALLY innate. As in I wasn't born with it. But my point is it almost feels that way.). This most recently became evident in my urban commute. I live on the north side of the city. My route is Clark (starting @ around 5300 N.) to Halsted, and then east on Lake. It takes about 45 minutes each way. And besides the inhalation of truck, construction, and other assorted industrial fumes that are surely killing me, it's a lovely ride. With one exception. CAR. DOORS. Yes, those commuters who have furiously rushed to work (but of course had time to stop and get their quadruple vente, no foam, soy latte…one splenda ((no please or thank you.)), latte in one hand, cell phone in the other…texting, who are SOOOO important that they needn't think of anyone but themselves when rushing from their vehicle to their cubicle so that they can keep their jobs and make just enough money to make their $600.00 a month car payment (precisely twice the amount of their student loan payment and ¾ of the amount of the their Illini wall covered, Lincoln Park apartment. Well, ¾ of their portion of the rent. Their three roommates cover the other portion. Super expensive but it's totally worth it because it's within walking distance of BOTH Duffy's AND Durkin's! SCORE!) on their new convertible Saab. Smell trouble? Me too. But not for me! For him/her! That's right. Armed with the power of the DE-DOORING URBAN-BIKER SIDEKICK I'll respond in an instant! No need to stop…or really even slow, if you time it properly. I'll continue on my way while the weekend warrior is left massaging his shin for the next 10 minutes to be followed by an insta-bruise and swelling that makes him ask, "Do you think I should go to the ER? (His inner-monologue: " Oooh! Miller Lite and Vicodin…"). You too can defend yourself against these boils on the butt of humanity (random Steal Magnolia's shout-out!!)

Let me break it down for you:

1. You must first gage the height of the car/car door. Since you've been paying attention all along, you'll already know what you're dealing with by the time it happens.

2. The height of the vehicle will determine whether or not you can stay seated or if you need to rise and balance on your leg that remains on the pedal.

3. Once that is determined you will put your weight on the leg furthest away from the car while at the same time bringing your knee closest to the car up toward your chest.

4. Lean slightly forward at the waist and focus on pivoting your inside hip so that if you were to now extend your leg out to your side your shoulder and your heel would be aligned . I will explain why this is important in a later step.

5. Now that your knee is cocked (pulled toward your chest), you're leaning forward slightly, and your hip it rotated forward, your hips should be open, giving you the power and the positioning that you need to execute your strike swiftly and efficiently.

6. The moment you see the door beside you begin to open you should be in this position.

7. Then SNAP the leg out to the side. The following is CRUCIAL for your success: The striking foot must be flexed with the toes pulled back. The heel MUST be over the ball of the foot with your big toe pointing at, let's say 7:00-ish. Do the best you can (if your hip is properly rotated forward as previously instructed, this should already be the position of your heel.). If you are directly beside the car you are to strike with the outer-ridge of the foot. If the door is slightly behind you, you are to use your heel to strike. This is technically a "back-kick" and not a side-kick. But it is equally useful and appropriate in this circumstance. And Finally, AS SOON as you strike the vehicle you are to IMMEDIATELY retract your kick to your starting position.

8. Shout expletive of your choice.

*NOTE* In the event that the door has been completely opened in front of you and you haven't the option of going around and are forced to stop, deliver this technique to the knee/shin/stomach/chest/face (whatever flexibility allows) of the impeding driver. Then, shout expletive.

I hope this has been useful. I wish you luck. Remember this technique will require practice. I suggest "borrowing" the keys to a friend's car who surely won't mind that you're practicing on their door. I suggest Garvey. She's very generous…and humble. In fact, so much so that she'd be embarrassed if you even asked first before you took her keys. She'd rather you just take them and not make a big deal.If you'd like me to clear up any of this technique or further explain, please don't hesitate to contact me.

Happy Commuting/saving the environment/saving money/not playing into the hands of the big oil companies!!!

Yours,

rem

**the original posting of this can be found at thechainlink.org**

How To Cut Costs During A Gas And Mortgage Crisis; every little bit counts

Dear Aime Bergeron and Sameer Herrera,

Thank you for your near daily emails informing me that I can get "Viagra and many other items" for only $1. ONE DOLLAR!? What a deal! Normally filling my Viagra prescription breaks the bank! In a time where gas is nearly five bucks a gallon and the mortgage crisis has us by the balls, every little bit counts!
Thanks again,
rem

Point of interest:
Things I don't have/own:

1. A car


2. A condo/mortgage


3. Balls

What's Love Got To Do With It?

Love \n\ 1: strong affection 2: warm attachment 3: attraction based on sexual desire 4: a beloved person 5: unselfish loyal and benevolent concern for others 6: a score of zero in tennis.

Hmmm…ok. Moving on…

Love vb Loved; Lov-ing 1: to value highly : CHERISH 2: go feel a lover’s passion, devotion, or tenderness for 3: to touch or stroke lightly in an endearing manner: CARESS 4: to like or desire actively

Ok…right. So then…

Loved adj : held dear

Gotcha. So what’s with all the questions? Being in my late twenties (as in 30 in less than a month) THIS seems to be the topic of conversation among many of my friends…both male and female. What is love? How do you know if you’re IN-love? The difference between love and IN-love. How do you show someone you love them? When are you allowed to tell them you love them, if/when you’ve decided you do? How do you know if they love you? What makes it work? What makes it not work? Blah, blah, blah…

It’s all very complicated…apparently. In an age where if you can’t google the answer it doesn’t exist, there seems to be a tone of frustration about this big ol’ mystery…normally we’re content to allow Merriam-Webster to define things. But I guess not with this topic, my friends. Despite the definitions offered above, well…it seems as though this is very hard to agree upon.

So, I’ve spent the last couple of weeks doing some research. Confused myself, I decided that I’d stop tuning out when these discussions happen (every time I’m out with friends for the last 5 years, in one way or another) and I’d start tuning in. At 1st not contributing, but rather collecting data through observation. Like Jane Goodall (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jane_Goodall), I watched my friends and their significant others in their natural habitats.

Then I stated to put in my two cents here and there, but only in small pieces. I feared judgment. I thought I had a pretty good idea, but if I was way off I didn’t think my ego could handle the pointing and laughing.
Here is my close circle (of coupled people): A married couple…with twins. THREE engaged couples (I guess we’re at that age). A living in sin couple…scratch that…two of those. A newly dating couple where he doesn’t want to say girlfriend and she’s offering his sweats at backyard bbqs. One of my best friends who recently moved away who fell in love with a man the 1st time they hung out…and he with her. Two lesbian couples, one of which does several things together and several things apart, and then VOLUNTARILY take interest in the other person’s apart things and then go home and cook each other things while they play with their dogs, listen to music, read, and then cuddle while they watch tv while planning their next fabulous vacation, occasionally pitying me and agreeing to tolerate me for an evening so I can be the foster child of mommy and mommy. This? How can I compete with this? So, I kept my mouth shut and I watched (rare).

Now, it must be said that I have made A LOT of dating mistakes. Those of you who know me personally are sitting there rolling your eyes at my understatement. Don’t feel bad. So am I. BUT I really feel I’ve learned from many of them. I’d list my lessons, but I think that’d be boring and this post is already seeming pretty boring. If you’d like to know, just ask. I asked many of them (the ones who wouldn’t ask me if I was drunk because I asked or think I was up no good), separately and together, “what’s love to you and how do you know if you’re doing it right?” Each of them looked at me weird and then realized that this is totally something rem would ask, and just answered me as honestly as they could.

NONE of them said the same thing about the former part of the question, but ALL of them said the same thing about the latter. They all defined love differently, but said (and I paraphrase) they didn’t really know if they were doing it right. They just knew they were trying their best. To which I asked, “But why? Why now with this person are you trying your best?” And they looked at me like I was stupid (because it appears that I very well may be) and said, “Because I love him/her.”

????I thought you weren’t supposed to define something by using the word itself????

I just went back to watching. There was little for me to learn by asking. Despite my single status, I didn’t feel all that different from the rest of them. They just seemed to be trying their best to show one person out of the rest of us that they mattered a little more than everyone else in the room (though I’m sure we all love each other…in our own ways) and that they were willing to do a little extra to keep them safe and feel strong (though I can remember each of us doing that for each other from time to time…pretty much when ever we let each others know we needed it).

But HERE, was the kicker…or the point…or…well here was the thing that made it seem to work. Everyone I mentioned in my close circle who I’ve had the chance to observe during this two week or so study, WANTED the other person to love them. Merriam-Webster should mention that. Like, if a tree falls in the woods and there’s nobody there to hear it, does it make a sound? And if a girl/guy falls in the city and there’s nobody there who wants to hear it, should she/he make a sound? Or does she/he keep it to her/himself? And in that sense, did it actually happen? The love, that is. Is one-sided love actually love or does it get a different name? And if it does get a different name does the word already exist or do we get to make it up right here? On MY blog (this could be BIG!)? I asked some friends, all of whom jokingly said things like, pathetic, sad, and pointless. So yeah, I guess all of those words already exist. But they seem sort of yucky. Yet I’m not committed to NOT agreeing with them…yet.

So let’s take it back to the place where we began. Defining love and all its parts and actions. All of the love questions at the beginning that have been tossed my way over the last several years. Did Merriam-Webster do a good job in helping us to understand (scroll up)? Correct me if I’m wrong (no. really. Do it.) but, no. Not really. Those are just words. THAT I learned through my observation. I can’t really tell you what loves got to do with it…but I can tell you it has very little to do with just words. So that answers all of those questions…sorta. Ok, no it doesn’t. Not even a little. Guess there is no answer. But what about the other ones? These: “And if a girl/guy falls in the city and there’s nobody there who wants to hear it, should she/he make a sound? Or does she/he keep it to her/himself? And in that sense, did it actually happen? The love, that is. Is one-sided love actually love or does it get a different name? And if it does get a different name does the word already exist or do we get to make it up right here?”

Just wondering.

Americans Not Yet Ready to Go Green, Too Busy Going Blue

As an individual who works in the behavioral health field, I often just automatically assume everyone is nuts. Before we go any further I think it’s important for me to define Schizophrenia to those of you who are unfamiliar with the DSM IV’s definition of the disease. There’s a lot to it but for the purposes of this post all you need to know is that “The characteristic symptoms of Schizophrenia involve a range of cognitive and emotional dysfunctions that include perception, infernal thinking, language and communication…and symptoms associated with impaired occupational or social functioning.” To put it simply, those with schizophrenia often times have trouble with reality and perception and much of the time they have visual and auditory hallucinations. As in they see and hear things that are not there. Often they talk to themselves. I’m talking full out conversations. There’s so much flow to these conversations that at times I’m wondering if I’m the crazy one because I can’t see the other person they’re talking to. The conversation almost makes sense…Like, it’s so detailed on the one end that I can almost imagine what the other (imaginary) person is saying. Or maybe schizophrenics see/hear dead people…but then what do dead people have against me that they’ve several times told my patients to stab me with a pen or to throw books and furniture at me…and, WAIT! I’m getting off track!

Ok, now that you’re all armed with behavior health knowledge and the characteristics of a schizophrenic, enter THE BLUE-TOOTH.

I assume you’re familiar?? That little thing that attaches to your ear and is a phone. So you don’t need to use your hands and your actual phone is no where near your head, allowing you to walk down the street and just talk without having to really deal with your phone. The blue-tooth, though noticeable up close, is pretty small and only attached to one ear. So even from close range, unless you’re on the side of that person’s head where the blue-tooth is attached…well, you just have no idea that it’s even there. It pretty much looks like they’re talking to themselves.

Now most of you know that in any major city the crazies are aplenty. And can be even more easily found on public transportation…which I ride everyday. Further, it’s not as easy as profiling, because there's no shortage of people who skip their rent (and their shower) so that they can afford to have a super-duper neat-o cell phone. And there are a lot of white collar crazies too. TRUST. ME. But either way, the blue-tooth owner is too busy and important to even bother with using their hands. This has lead to some great confusion for me. I find that my everyday life now includes one more very important question. “Crazy person or just really, really busy and important person?” Either way, I’m sure I don’t want to sit near you on the CTA. Actually, if I had to choose (which I often do) I think I’d pick the crazy. They have more time for me, and I like to feel like I matter every now and again.