Jul 22, 2012

What I Did Over Summer Vacation

A kimono would have felt really nice on my skin.
This year for summer vacation, I got the shingles.  I spent my entire nine days of vacation (that’s five work days plus two weekends) hurting and uncomfortable.  The Wednesday before my planned vacation, I woke up with the right side of my back feeling sensitive and a little painful.  I checked in the mirror, and it looked like I had a bug bite, so I asked my partner to look at it.  He confirmed it looked like two bug bites, or else a really big spider bite (eeeeeeek!).  it continued to bother me all day, so the next day I went in to the sliding scale fee clinic, where the doctor said it was indeed a bug bite and was not infected.  I mentioned that my whole right-sided  back hurt, but that didn’t seem to register with my doc, and he sent me home.  That day, a small circular area of a rash showed up under my armpit, kind of on my side boob. 

Over the weekend, the pain got worse, the rash began to look blistery, the bug bite seemed to look worse, and a rash broke out on my back near the bug bite.  It also got blistery looking, and Monday I went back in to the clinic, where the PA diagnosed me with shingles and wrote me a prescription for valacyclovir and nortriptyline.  The valacyclovir turned out to cost $250 (holy shit!).  My father-in-law suggested I go to the local Urban Clinic, which mostly serves Native Americans but which is open to all (which hardly anybody knows!).  My father-in-law works for the government, in charge of something to do with the area’s Indian Health Services, so he’s always got good tips like that. 

At the Urban Clinic they quickly diagnosed me with shingles, even using me as a specimen to show others what form classic shingles took.  The rash spots had the blistery herpes-looking stuff, and the area around them was reddened as well.  The visit was free, thank goodness, and so was some sleeping / pain medication.  I went to Costco for some generic meds (acyclovir), and it only ended up costing me $16. 

I was given different stories about my likelihood of erupting with shingles again.  At the Urban Clinic I was told that this outbreak means I’m unlikely to get it again, while the sliding scale fee clinic told me it put me at higher risk for recurrence.  If you’ve had chicken pox, like I have, the virus apparently stays in your body, and can erupt at any time, usually when a person is older and their immune system starts breaking down slowly.  Everyone said I was pretty young to be getting shingles.  It can also be brought on by stress.

Yes, I’ve been under stress, working 60 hours a week for almost a year now, taking on another transcription job on top of that, caring for my children, worrying that I’m not getting any writing done, and all that comes with being a working mother with a working partner. 

The pain that comes with shingles is unusual.  It’s nerve pain, which I’ve never experienced, because shingles attacks you under the skin, and the rash is sort of a side development, not the main pain generator.  The rashes itched, sure, but the whole right side of my back—shingles is nearly always one-sided—ached.  Describing it to someone, I mentioned that it felt like my muscles were stiff and achy, but also that the skin was extremely sensitive there.  The pain began to wrap around to my breast, making it achy as well.  I haven’t worn a bra since about day three, which bothers me.  My breasts are large (DD) and I have almost no shirts that hold them in with any success.  So on these 100 degree days, whenever I went out I wore a sweater or a shawl.  Plenty of people are comfortable not wearing a bra, and that’s cool.  But I HATE the no-bra, baggy t-shirt look, so I wore my tightest camisoles and tank tops. 

As a medical transcriptionist, shingles came to mind right away when I had the right-sided back pain, but I figured my job was turning me into a hypochondriac.  Turns out I’m just super smart.  I’m feeling sorry for myself that I had to cancel all my plans, which included a trip to Missoula and Spokane.  I was also very much looking forward to a trip to my hometown to search the newspaper archives, visit the museum, and walk around doing some memory mapping for my book project.  Still, I’m lucky to have had the week to recover, see the movie Brave with nine children, and I did finish three books (Refuge by Terry Tempest Williams, Ya-Yas in Bloom by Rebecca Wells, and The Pearl by John Steinbeck).  And today, finally today, I worked on an essay.

Jul 20, 2012

Rich Kids of [the fleeting] Instagram: Don't be mad. I hear UPS is hiring.

more (every day!)
at richkidsofinstagram.tumblr.com
Damn. The label on that Champaign bottle is conspicuous, like I should recognize it immediately, but I don’t. And I wonder about the cost of that gold watch hanging from that kid’s skinny wrist (not a single pimple on his baby face). And I had no idea Rich Kids still tied their sweaters around their shoulders like some sort of old-school beacon of wealth. Rich Kids do things like stroll on their parents’ personal beaches with wine that, per bottle, might cost more than my rent. They smoke cigarettes in their penthouse suites and pretend to be bad asses. They take personal helicopters to those personal beaches and suites and vacation homes - Fuck helicopter taxis; you gotta’ own it, keep it on call. I’m not sure if the helicopter is cooler than having a personal jet plane. My first guess is no. And there’s that hot pink Mercedes Benz, a birthday present. Is it just me, or is it clown-car ugly? How does she – a teenager – drive the car around on the streets without having rocks and rotten eggs and dirty panties flung at her? Does she route out only respectable (“safe”) streets? Or does she only drive it to Versace? Or do people see her ride stopped at a stoplight and reach out to pet it, maybe drool on it a little? I confess, of this Rich Kids’ world, I seem to be totally oblivious.

Scrolling through the collection of photos on the tumblr “Rich Kids of Instagram,” shared on Facebook yesterday by The Other 98%, was a bad way to start my day. The tagline for the tumblr page reads: “They have more money than you and this is what they do.” I don’t know exactly how the tumblr works. I don’t know how the lives of super rich kids work either, and, for the most part, I don’t care. But I scrolled through the pics anyway. A peek into a forbidden foreign culture? Or train-wreck magnet syndrome?

At first, the pics opened up a surprising deluge of emotion, a mix of bitter anger and pity and sorrow, and, in the end, I was hating myself. Self-fucking-hating. The self-hate wasn’t self-pity like “I am such a loser for not having the shit those jerks have. If only ... ” The self-hate – rather than hate for the Rich Kids – is simple really. 

For a poor girl who feels she has busted her ass, determined to find a “better” place one day, self-hate can be cyclic and persistent. I can be my own biggest obstacle when it comes to reaching legitimate happiness. Most of us poor girls have been trained to be kind, self-sacrificing, not to take more than our fair share, to say thank you. When assholes don’t at least meet you somewhere near the middle – AND when they gloat about it, accuse you of being jealous because you weren’t quick enough to stop them – you get pissed. If you've faced a seemingly unfair amount of broken promises and hardships or if you've grown up around or fully aware of people who have, you can get teeth-grinding punch-throwing pissed. When you get pissed, you hate yourself for giving in, for playing the game, for coming across as selfish, for stooping, for shedding your grace.

I was angry with the kids for being so … stupidly rich. Gluttonous. Disgusting. And it looks as if they’re flaunting the piss out of it. I opened the Twitter profile of one rich kid linked to the site and found the defining line under his name on his profile to read: “Don’t be mad. I hear UPS is hiring.” Maybe the Rich Kids get tired of the guilt “forced” on them when they have to look upon the rest of the deprived world (one of the many problems with being well-educated, right?), and so they spit in its face. But what the fuck do I know? Maybe they regularly perform amazing, global-changing acts of kindness, and I’m jumping the gun. Maybe they’re just too young, too busy, having too much freaky fun to consider anything on an intellectual level. They’re just kids. Teenagers are notoriously oblivious and self-centered. 

And, just like me, they couldn’t help where they were born. Who they are is a result of learned behavior, the result of a complex system. I know this. If I was super rich, what might I buy my own children? I recognized the sweeping generalizations behind my anger. I had fallen back to ignorant stereotypes. I had answered shallow with shallow, and I hated myself for it. 


I decided I could be more empathetic. Try to consider the intense pressure and lack of honesty these kids surely deal with on a daily basis. I imagined the fear that must reside knowing that who you are lies primarily in your “things,” and with an unfortunate turn of circumstance – the wrong words spoken at a cocktail party? a stupid act of investment? a thief? a revolution? – you could lose it all. I imagined them fighting with their parents, parents who are self-centered and material. I imagined them feeling the pressures and stresses that come along with the need to impress small-minded peers with impossible and unpredictable standards. I imagined the demanding presence of life-raping drugs. Illusive escapes. Failed geographical cures disguised as year-long Caribbean cruises with no happy ending. Trippin’ and spreading STDs around for weeks on Daddy’s yacht. Suicidal in the Porsch, trying to fill the five car garage up with carbon monoxide. I imagined them walking into the office of the most costly psychiatrist or spiritual guide in the world and asking him/her to “fix it.” Poor kids. The jokes on them. This is the best I can do as far as empathy. I tell myself: Hey, I employed my imagination. At least I made an effort. It’s more than what most of the Rich Shits would do for someone like me. I kick myself again. Damn it.

I kinda’ sucked at my attempts to make the Rich Kids “more human” (or whatever it was I was trying to do). I confess, it made me feel better to imagine the Rich Kids suffering. My empathy was more annoying than anything. I kept stepping over the edge and onto the dark side. And, in part, I hated myself for even trying. Poor kids?? I didn't believe it. Sure, there is tremendous pain in being ever-surrounded by concrete objects but nothing 100% Genuine . . . but that pain isn’t reserved for the elite. I wonder if the Rich Kids know this?

There is one Instagram of a Barbie doll posed to look as though she’s sucking a line of cocaine up her plastic nubby nose. Maybe it’s indicative of a Rich Kid poking a little fun at herself. But there lies the cocaine, three lines of it. Expensive shit – or so I hear. And it’s real. I’m sure of it. It’s as real as the massive sailboat off the shore of Greece in another Instagram. Thousands upon thousands of dollars are sucked up Rich Kids’ noses (on sailboats, helicopters, jet planes, yachts, penthouse suites …) in big swift sniffs. But I think I have every right to be upset/bitter/angry, even as they snort drugs, sip refined alcohols, throw exclusive parties all in some stretch of desperation I will never fully understand. I know nothing of this place these kids live in, the Kingdom of the fleeting Instagram. And they know nothing of me.


I try to relate, but I can’t. My efforts to be sincere, to be some kind of higher spirit capable of rising above my anger, capable of redefining myself as “lucky” (luckier than the Rich Kids) for having gained extra insight by pulling myself “up by my bootstraps” “against all odds” (by way of many ominous student loans) seems dishonest, pointless and wimpy. It also feels conceited because making claims of having pulled oneself “up” from anywhere is subjugating that from which you pull yourself up and out of. I still struggle with such concepts, hence, self-loathing. When I say “And they know nothing of me,” a little (oddly American? smart?) voice in my head says, “Why the fuck should they care?”

I’m not being holier-than-thou when I say I WISH I didn’t want for anything. Of that, I am sincere. Ironic, but sincere. Even as I make myself write about it, I know I’m seeking (any) confirmation, some reassurance I’m doing okay. And because I was raised as I was, writing can feel selfish. Even the desire to simply work toward being “comfortable” feels excessive. When you grow up poor, you also hear that little voice say things like, “Who the hell do you think you are?” My tendency toward self-defeat feels like a curse. A Rich Kid may be first to tell me I’m being stupid. And I would have a hard time not punching Rich Kids pretty nose. Or maybe Rich Kids hear "Who the hell do you think you are?" even more than I do.

Truth is I can be a prideful bitch, and I think I might genuinely want the “Rich Kids of Instagram” to hate me back to keep things simple. The logic of dominance works every which way. And it works by way of fear and through a global want for some kind of love. We all want confirmation. After all, here are these pictures. And so I'm trying to forgive them.

Thanks “Rich Kids of Instagram.” I have to wonder if a bit of personal enlightenment wasn’t the foreseen part of a grandeur plan of the tumblr's creator. I want to kick myself again for doubting it.

See ya’, Rich Kids. Wouldn’t wanna’ be ya’.

Damnit.

Jul 11, 2012

Me type. Me no write.

The only reason I wear my pajamas to work is because my
ruffly dress is at the cleaners!
About a year ago, I took a promotion.  I'm a medical transcriptionist, and technically I'm an independent subcontractor, so there's this relationship thing where the woman who assigns me my work is not actually my employer, but we interact in some ways as if she is, and it's all good.  I've been typing for a living for almost eight years now, and it's been a perfect type of work for me for several reasons:

1.  I types real fast, y'all.  *shakes her money makers*
2.  I get to work at home.  Mixed blessing, but a blessing, no question, especially with kids.
3.  I have a great memory, and memorization is a huge part of my job - I don't have to stop to look shit up.  Well, of course I do, but less and less often.  

So each day I'm assigned 1500 lines of work, which is a full-time load and probably eight solid hours of work for me.  My other job is running my household.  My husband helps out, but the bulk of all things domestic still falls on me.  About a year ago I got a raise because I started proofing my own work. I worked for this raise and it felt good, because I have a certain higher level of responsibility now, which didn't scare me as much as I thought it would.  I also started making more money, but it came with longer hours.  I started getting up earlier. 

When we got back to Montana four months ago, my husband got a job right away and began working long hours.  I kept up my long hours, usually 12 hours in my office, taking necessary breaks to take children places, prepare meals, and sometimes just goof off with my kids.  Then I had the opportunity to begin proofing other transcriptionists' work, which meant another small raise on top of a per line rate for the documents I proofread.  It adds at least an hour to my work day and adds about $300 to my check each month, $150 every paycheck.  Oh, and did I mention I took a big chunk of non-medical transcription as well, with no definite deadline but which is totally looming over me?

Meanwhile, my husband is working hella long hours at the restaurant.  All this is to say that we're now making enough money to get by.  We're able to pay our bills and buy some healthier groceries.  We've been able to take the kids to the local water park and for the first time in years (maybe ever) I bought my husband a father's day gift.  I'm still working on a budget, but I think we're doing all right now.  I hope to be able to get insurance for myself soon (my kids and husband are able to get health care on the Crow reservation nearby, though I do plan to sign my kids up for Healthy Montana Kids)

Working these long hours at home is different than working long hours on my feet like my husband does.  Today we had a mild disagreement about how much time he was allowed to relax on a day off.  I was a little bitchy.  I do love working at home, and I am lucky.  Every day I get up around 6, make coffee, and either shower or get right to work.  One by one as my kids wake up they come upstairs and push open the door, eyes squinty and chins crusted with drool.  They'll come close for hugs, and sometimes curl up on my lap or on the floor while they wake up for the day.  I pretty much treasure those moments.  But it breaks my heart when my four year-old says "Why do you always have to work a long day!" or when my eight year-old brings up the fact that we need to have some time alone together.  And so sometimes I take a break from work and have a picnic under the tree in our front yard, or watch a program with my kids.  Once in a while if I feel I can't make it through the day without, I'll ask one of my younger kids if they want to nap with me. They always say yes, and my favorite way to fall asleep is with my hand across their narrow bodies. 

So I make time for my kids, and I make time for my husband.  Even though I'm exhausted by 10 p.m., some weeknights and most weekends I'll stay up until he gets home at 11, 12, or 1, just so I can sit with him and hear about his day, and so I can tell him all the stories of what happened around the house.  We've still managed to have sex a couple of times a week through all this, and I'm so glad we still have the passion we've always had for each other.  Even being exhausted I can be quickly convinced by my extremely amorous hubby to participate in some bowchickawowow.


I work hard to make sure my relationships don't suffer, and of course I have tremendous guilt.  But something has to give, and so lately what gives is my writing time, and my reading time.  I'm trying to turn a thesis into a book, and I have no time and not much motivation to work on it.  When I finally get the kids to bed at night, I gotta do some cleaning.  I can't relax in the living room unless I pick up and sweep, and the dishes are my personal chore, so I have to keep up with that.  So around 10 p.m. I collapse on the couch (which we just got FREE from our neighbors at a garage sale) and ponder if I should read one of three books I'm in the middle of, or maybe do some writing, or if instead I should maybe watch one episode of Reno 911 and then take my sleeping pill and hit the sack or doze on the couch till High Hawk the hubby gets home.  Sadly, the latter's been winning almost all the time. 


Over a year's worth of notes! And
why yes, that IS Anchorman there
in the corner!
I'm so grateful to be able to move up in my work, to have this particular kind of work, and to be making enough money to get by.  But. 

 I started to borrow Anne Lamott's idea about writing words, ideas, sentences, etc., down on index cards.  I started with white, but then I got a stack of different colored ones, and when I'm typing away at medical records, if I have an idea for a blog post, I write it on a green index card.  Pink is for ideas for my manuscript, and orange is for a different book idea I have.  So I've got a stack of neon reminders that alternately inspire and taunt me, tease me and tempt me. 

Mostly, they just get scattered all over the floor.


Jul 1, 2012

Dream, Reality, Fantasy


You know, I try to be Ms. Revolutionary and try not to care that I am no longer married, am jaded and accepting of a non-traditional lifestyle, but sometimes this tra-la-la stuff stops and I get smacked in the face with gorgeous engagement pictures on Facebook or bridal showers or weddings of well-adjusted individuals I know. My fear is that I will veer away from this sort of happiness because 1) I feel I don’t deserve it. I had my chance and/or 2) this sort of happiness and stability doesn’t really happen anymore. Yet, there it is in front of my face, this POSSIBILITY of the American dream: someone to commiserate over student loans, to have more children with, to know the ins and outs of each others quirks. Maybe I’m just not built for it anymore. 

I wonder if this is a post-divorce phase? Will I ever be or feel eligible for a real baby shower or bridal shower? Will I ever wear my dream wedding gown? None of those things happened with my first marriage or first child. I feel this is the price I pay for having been a 19-year-old mother and newlywed.

What are your experiences? Have you been here? Did you get out of the slump? Did you embrace the new “fun-loving, devil may care” you? Are you a married lady who thinks women like me are nuts? 

Tell me.