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November 2007 archivesThursday, November 29, 2007
Crossed
One of the things that chapped my hide when I moved from working at a non-union to a union newsroom was that I had to change insurance providers. And it was God-awful insurance. I mean, no insurance is perfect, to be sure, but I went from having some of the best coverage in the history of the world to paying twice that much, per paycheck, to lose access to all of my doctors and be covered with practically nothing. Now understand that prior to these past two years, I could have given a flying fig about my health care coverage. I've been healthy as a horse and, thank God, never had a catastrophic event that's introduced me to the perils of shitty coverage. But this past year, I've had minor little inconveniences pop up, just enough to realize how beneficial good health insurance is. The kind that lets you catch little inconveniences before they become big ones. That's a fucking luxury, people. Had it not been for the insurance I had, I would have never been able to afford the tests that were taken that discovered I have a thyroid condition. It was, quite frankly, the thing that turned the light on to so much of what has ailed me. But then? When it was time to do the follow up blood work? Well, I couldn't. Not on the union's insurance. Not without jumping through exhaustive hoops. I just needed some blood work. But I couldn't even go back to my original GP, let alone have these tests covered without finding a new doctor. And let me tell you something - while my skin has cleared up, and my headaches all but disappeared, I'm still absolutely and incredibly exhausted. And I sleep no less than seven and a half hours every night. One of the worst things about being hypothyroid is that I am always tired. Walking around perpetually tired is about as awful as it sounds. I fall asleep as soon as I'm on the couch. Any couch. I try and keep myself off of caffeine, but there are days where I won't make it through the day without an extra hit of it. I need that blood work done. Luckily, at my new job, I'm back to being covered by my original insurance, paying what I paid before, and this week I'm off to my doctor for all of my follow up testing, and I hope a new approach to handling my thyroid issues. And while this is all a thorn in my side, it's simply a thorn. It pales in comparison to what some folks deal with, and Linda's most recent entry reminded me of that, and reminded me that it's not a bad idea to keep that focus as we enter into an incredibly important election year. If you haven't gotten hep to what an issue health care in this country is, you either haven't been paying attention or live in a bubble that is carefully attended to by nice people who shelter you from an uncaring world. There were, even for a Michael Moore fan such as myself, many issues I had with Sicko, but the overall message is an important one. You should see it if you haven't. Posted by Erin at 03:33 PM | | filed under: Odds and ends Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Indeed
Ever have one of those days where all you really want is some peanut butter? Today is already one of those days. Posted by Erin at 08:19 AM | | filed under: Random Stupidity Monday, November 26, 2007
Reflection
On my way out of my office today I caught my reflection and for a moment I didn't recognize myself. I don't mean that in some lofty, introspective way. I really mean that for a moment the me that existed in my, well, head, and the person I saw in the mirror did not match up. In my head I was thinking about how much my thighs hurt from overdoing it at the gym on Saturday - 90 minutes of training and weight lifting - and maybe how dumb that was to do in light of having run an 8K the day before, and how it is that I push myself to do silly physical things like that, always have, because I always feel like I'm never doing enough, and as I hobbled towards the bathroom stall I looked up and I saw this ... woman looking back. I was wearing a long, black trench coat with my Burberry scarf peeking out from underneath. When I was a little girl, my father wore a Burberry scarf to work downtown every day - well, every day that it was cold - and I always thought it was the height of sophistication, of professional-person-ism. I bought mine when I was in Ireland three years ago, when I'd had enough money to buy a real one of my own. It stands to reason that I'd quite consciously implement the scarf into my own professional persona as an adult, and I suppose it's always sort of irked me how trendy and fashionable Burberry became since the plaid first caught my eye, wrapped around my dad's neck. Underneath were lined, brown-plaid, wool pants paired with a cream-colored, knit top. Both from Ann Taylor and as safe and as conservative a look as anyone could dream up. Sensible shoes, new glasses, and understated jewelry put it all together. Plus, I'd styled my hair that morning, newly colored by Scott's sister Jen Wednesday night, over much catching up and wine at the salon. Somehow, my hair and makeup all remain in place after nine hours. When did that happen anyway? When did I have that sort of hair? That sort of makeup? I don't know when I became this person altogether. I mean, clearly I had a hand in it all - this conservative, this safe, this sanitary look has been me for years now. After years of stops and starts, of trying on all sorts of identities, this is the one in which I seem most comfortable, the least awkward. I don't make apologizes anymore for showing up in what I tell Scott is my "Banana Republic Gear" because I feel, finally, OK being this person. I'm less fidgety, less awkward, less unsure of myself. Admittedly I'm less bold, less risky than I was before I settled into this woman, but I think I've finally gotten tired of fighting who I wasn't with who I was. It doesn't mean I'm not startled and caught unaware by what I see sometimes, despite clearly having embraced it, embraced nice jeans, embraced a life without funky hair colors. I grew up. That's all. Some days, however, it blindsides the hell out of me that it eventually happened. Posted by Erin at 10:48 PM | | filed under: Odds and ends Sunday, November 25, 2007
Olivia shoots me cooler
My friend Olivia is one of the most talented photographers I know. Dead serious. In fact, hers was one of the first pictures ever chosen by Flickr to be used as one of the random photo placeholders on the main page. I can't way for the day that both of our schedules collide because she's agreed to take pictures of me and Glinny. We all went out for karaoke last night and she put together a slide show from all of the pictures she took, which, not surprisingly, are awesome. There are several pictures me coming off way prettier and way more awesome than I do in real life, which is the brilliance of a good photographer, because if you can make a girl feel pretty while she's got her gaping maw wide open, you're a genius. If you're in the area, and you need an awesome photographer, I can't recommend Olivia enough. You seriously need to hire her so she can quit her job. And to answer the obvious questions a few of you might have? Yes, that's him. Posted by Erin at 09:23 PM | | filed under: Odds and ends What has two thumbs and is going to see Kenny Rogers tonight?
Posted by Erin at 11:42 AM | | filed under: Supastah Friday, November 23, 2007
Thankful
I think it was at about 8:30 this morning while watching the morning news, after the dogs had been let out and fed, and I'd crawled into my sister's bed, with my sister, and Scott, who'd graciously spent the night in the twin bed in the guest room, eventually followed suit and set up camp at the end of the bed, only to attract the attention of both dogs who love him more than life itself, that I was totally overcome with how lucky I am. Right there in that room with me were my very best friends in the whole wide world. I'm thankful for so much, but I am most thankful for them. Posted by Erin at 12:37 PM | | filed under: Odds and ends Tuesday, November 20, 2007
It's my opinion, too
"This is my opinion, but one in which I believe so strongly that as far as I'm concerned, it is a Big-F Fact: a society that doesn't take care of its own least fortunate, whether that's the poor or the disabled or whoever, is a society that does not deserve to survive. If we as a civilization can't do better than "Public schools should be reserved for the 'neurotypical'", then we deserve nothing less than to implode on our own selfish appetites and our own primping narcissism. I'll be the first one at the barricades when the revolution begins. "If you believe that you as a citizen have a right to decide that every penny of your tax dollars should go to providing your neurotypical child with the best education possible, and that you shouldn't be expected to help fund programs that do not directly benefit your kid, I'm not sure what to say to you. "Well, yes I am. I hope you take a moment out of your self-absorbed life every so often to thank your God (if you have one) that your kid didn't draw that card, the one that twists their genes or gives them an extra chromosome or stirs their brain chemistry or breaks their bodies." - Rob Rummel-Hudson, Because "separate but equal" worked out so well the first time..., November 17, 2007 Posted by Erin at 01:04 PM | | filed under: Blog move Monday, November 19, 2007
Everyone stop it right now
If I have to hear or read, one more time, someone using the phrase, "That's how I roll," as though he or she is Huggy Bear, or, worse, Snoop doing Huggy Bear, or some such nonsense, I will scream. I'm not saying I never used it (Scott) but I recognize that every little phrase has a shelf life and "That's how I roll" should have been tossed out with other choice gems such as "Whatevs" and "So. Not. Worth. Using. Periods. After. Every. Word." and countless others. The opportunity to use it in a snarky fashion also has expired. You've been warned. Posted by Erin at 12:35 PM | | filed under: Odds and ends Sunday, November 18, 2007
You don't get that in Chicago
Last night I slept over at my grandmother's house. She lives in the same sleepy little town she's called home since JP was a little kid and they moved there from the arsenal. Even though it's just a stone's throw from Joliet, it's always felt (and in some ways very much so remains) as small town as it always had. That's part of its charm, and why being there is as comforting as putting on slippers after a long day. I'm a city girl, but I like going to Gram's because it's nice to sit still for a day or so. As with all towns of its size, everyone knows each other and if they don't know you they know about you if you're related to someone in town. Rare is the time after Saturday night Mass that a friend of Gram's isn't enveloping me in a big hug, based solely on the fact that I'm Kay's granddaughter. That, too, is a nice feeling. But what I really like, what I really love most, is the time before bed, when you're sitting in Gram's kitchen talking, especially if we've dug out the old pictures, is that after awhile, the ever-present police scanner will go off, and you'll hear the dispatcher relay one thing or another over the channel, and there is a very good chance it'll be something such as we heard last night: "We've got a ... black and white dog missing ... spot on his face ... answers to the name Duke ..." "Copy that. I see him." "Oh good! His owner is here looking for him." "I'll get him." (seconds pass) "He's a fast one that Duke." Even my grandma, who is used to such things, had to laugh. Posted by Erin at 03:51 PM | | filed under: Odds and ends Friday, November 09, 2007
Strike
I'm so proud of Pam. If you want to learn more about what it's like on the frontlines of the writers' strike, go read her already. Posted by Erin at 10:47 AM | | filed under: Blog move Thursday, November 08, 2007
Someone somewhere clearly wants me to give a hoot about the nimcompoops on The Hills
I chalk it up to genetics, this fascination I have with celebrity culture. (Can you actually call it "culture?" Probably not. Celebrity "propaganda" is more like it. Still, you know of what I speak.) Oh sure, the tabloidization of mainstream media (wretched term it is) has made it so everyone knows about Linsday Lohan's drug-and-shopping binges, Paris Hilton's snatch and Jesus Lord Britney Spears, she of the tight purse strings for the poor. It's all rather inescapable, I used to work at a big daily newspaper, I know. Even we once led with a story on Brangelina, as misguided as a move though it were. But no. I come by all of this quite naturally. My mother, may she rest in peace, was obsessed with All-Things-Celebrity. I don't want to say she was obnoxious, because she wasn't. She wasn't one of those adults who would stalk celebrities at appearances in grocery stores, though I'm pretty certain Cathy once showed up for an autograph session with the actors who played "Cliff" and "Nina" on All My Children. But she paid attention and discussed with my sister and me every minutiae on her favorite stars. I still have to remind myself when I come across her visage that my mother really didn't know Victoria Principal, though to hear her talk you would have thought Vicki would be showing up that week at The Colonial, the restaurant she and my father frequented almost every Friday night with their friends. I'd also wager a guess that my mother was never more thrilled with my dating choices than when I was dating a sportscaster in the late '90s. I'm sure she was up in heaven celebrating the fact that her daughter was a serious item with someone who showed up on TV every day. So it's not a surprise that I've been a subscriber to Us Weekly. I used to be embarrassed by it, but I've since embraced my addiction much in the same way we embrace many things of which we were once concerned with what other people thought. I am old enough not to give a rat's behind anymore. And up until lately, I've looked forward to coming home on a Friday and hunkering down with my weekly book o' crap. I mean, it is crap. Why should I be surprised that Sascha Baron Cohen buys the "good" toilet paper? The dude is rich. I know when I started having more expendable income the first thing I did was buy this stuff, and I buy it in bulk on the off-chance that ... I don't know. I just know I never want to use single-ply sheets of anything in a place that means so much to me. Even all that said, Us Weekly has been lacking. And I know why. As a 31-year-old woman, I'm creeping slowly into a demographic that they could care less about. I'm not going to buy those fucked up diet pills, or tanktops that read "Mrs. Efron," or consciously use the word "bling" in any normal conversation wherein I am not poking fun at others who do. Because of this, the articles are mainly about celebrities I have no interest in. It's not as though I'm looking for the latest on Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward or anything, but I do not care who Lauren Conrad is, or about her latest dating strategies, and so knowing my subscription was drawing nigh, I made a decision: I was breaking up with Us Weekly. I announced it to Scott on several occasions, because I knew he'd never believe I'd do it, and declared myself totally over the whole thing and ready to get a subscription to ... I don't know. Something else that would enrich my life. But just a week before the subscription was set to run out, do you know what happened? Those jerks charged me $70 for another year. So I called and complained and gave my very best impression of an adult, because I really did have it in my head that people who look like Perez Hilton and the cast of High School Musical are the ones manning the phones down there, and was told quickly that I'd be refunded. End of story. I called back today after receiving only a $1.35 credit to my account, as opposed to one for $70. The nice guy on the other end, however, noticed something before he could assess the situation: I had another Us Weekly account in the system from a subscription that was placed six years ago. This nice person assured me that I'd be receiving my $70 back, and that the $1.35 was a refund for the one issue that I "would have received last week" (which I totally did, suckers!) but that the old account showed that I had two years, paid in full, left. That's right. TWO YEARS. I'd like to say that this shocks me but it doesn't. My twenties were a blur of incredibly bad decisions across the board, so to learn that I'd set down a wad of cash on a gossip magazine subscription, and then never bothered to change my mailing address with them, just totally blew it off, is not a surprise. The day that comes that someone says to me, "You took care of this matter back in 2002," will be the day you can color me amazed. That era was just bad news bears, people. You know what this means, right? I am the proud owner of an Us Weekly subscription until March 2009. Do you know how much in my life will potentially change in two years? Everything! But not my status as a subscriber to Us Weekly! No siree! I'd like to think that this is a sign of something of a legacy that I will leave my children, too. Posted by Erin at 07:49 AM | | filed under: Random Stupidity , Supastah Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Fringe benefits
Sometimes I feel badly that my job doesn't lend itself to more benefits for Scott, at least as much as his does for me. I'm always the happy beneficiary to the coolness of his job. For instance? This week we are going to go see Lucero, a band with a lead singer who, as evidenced when we saw him live last summer, prompts young, Southern women to extemporaneously announce, "I'm looking good tonight for Bay-ehn," without a stitch of sarcasm. She really was dressed for Ben. I didn't, quite honestly, think it could get better this week than going to see Lucero, but it has. After getting out of a meeting this afternoon, I was greeted by an IM from Scott, informing me that a coworker of his gave him a jar of this stuff as an offering for being late on something Web-related. "You can give it to your girlfriend," the editor reportedly said, handing it over to my befuddled boyfriend. I'm sure that for Scott, being given $50-worth of spa product for me doesn't really balance out as much as he'd like in his favor, but believe you me - it's just one more thing that makes me even more supportive of his workaholic tendencies, which really aren't outrageous, just the mark of someone who never, ever does anything even remotely half-assed. So I say, "Work till 8:30 p.m., baby! Just don't forget the pore-minimizer!" Posted by Erin at 06:49 PM | | filed under: Odds and ends Sunday, November 04, 2007
Rollin'
Tonight, Scott, the Two Steves - two of Scott's friends who, not surprisingly, are both named "Steve" - and I went to watch the championship match of the Windy City Rollers. Women's roller derby is the most awesome thing we have ever seen in the history of forever. A pack of rabid, bad-ass women zooming around a track on roller skates, wearing shiny hot pants, torn fishnets, bruises and tattoo sleeves, beating the ever-loving crap out of each other is the way we want to spend our Sunday nights from here on out. Plus, we got to drive out to Cicero, people, and any excuse to haul my cookies out there makes it even better. Honestly, we bought t-shirts. We loved it that much. Go Hell's Bells! |
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