Ashley Dupre v. Joe Francis

It didn't take long for the cries of, why is she suing NOW?

Of What a selfish spoiled brat, only after the money! Of She just wants to ruin his career! Of She just needs the attention!

No, these things weren't said where I'm going to link, but the implications are there in the question (no matter the asker), and it's not hard to find actual people saying these things outright.

Thomas gives this idiocy the smackdown:

Why is she suing now? Maybe because someone is suddenly using the footage that she thought was long forgotten? Maybe because she feels cheated that Joe Francis gets to make a killing off of something she did when she was just 17, and that she got nothing for except a tee shirt and a few drinks? Maybe because, now, publicly identified as a sex worker and afraid she’ll never be famous for anything but being sexual for money, she thinks the best move is to try to get as much money out of it as she can? Maybe she doesn’t care if the whole world sees her naked at 17, but she thinks Joe Francis is a tool.

I don’t know the woman, but I can see a lot of reasons.

I think it's rather indicative that no matter what sick shit a man pulls, we have to seek out some woman, somewhere, to blame for it.

What was that again?

So, what do the three presidential candidates have to say about disability?

Oh yeah. That. Doesn't ever seem to be much of a topic, does it?

Michael Bérubé explains, in his somehow simultaneously meandering-but-crisply-clear manner.

What I found interesting is that this:

The nine-page .pdf, “Barack Obama’s Plan to Empower Americans with Disabilities”, says many of the same things Hillary does – about [...] hiring 100,000 people with disabilities in the federal government (except that someone needs to tell the Obama camp that it’s Executive Order 13163 Obama needs to reinstate, not 13173, which created an Interagency Task Force on the Economic Development of the Central San Joaquin Valley; reinstating 13173, whatever its merits, probably won’t do much for disability policy in the United States).

would benefit me either way! ¡Vive la valle central! God, I miss home.

Main Street and Church, Visalia, CA from Johnny J Lopez

Let's put a death to this, shall we?

Trying to turn around a situation so that it is about race instead of sex. (Or what have you.)

"If somebody said such-and-such about a black person..."

Cut it the fuck out. You are playing on the narrative that racism is dead in our society, which is a back-breaking load of rancid shit.

I understand the desire to try to communicate to people who might not otherwise understand how serious something is. But please find a way to do it without making things worse for our brothers and sisters living every fucking day as a gay person, trans person, person of color, person with a disability...

These systems of oppression are incomprehensibly large and they operate in different ways for different classes of persons. They are equally reprehensible, but that does not mean they all operate the same way, and that if something problematic about [x class] is not tolerated in society, [x class] must not have it so bad after all.

Check your privilege.

Monday Family Blogging

Husband and child, so to speak.

Husband was lying down next to Buddy in the same position: tummy up, back legs splayed, front paws held up to one's chest begging-style, staring up wide-eyed but vacantly into the air.

He wouldn't let me take a picture of the two of them like that. Spoilsport.

Snapshots: Saturday

(Part of) a day in the life...

I write these bits and pieces because I want to fill out, flesh out, what it means to be -- well, any of the parts that make up me, anyway. In this case, there is relevance to my physical condition; what it means to be fibromyalgic, disabled, living with an invisible illness, managing all of that in a balanced way.

Please note I haven't had time to review and edit this. I am going to bed.

***

Yesterday I was scheduled to work 11-5pm. At least it was long enough a shift to allow a break -- usually I wander around the mall (at the end of which is the camera shop that employs me) and window-shop just to get my mind off the sales floor for a bit. I look at the kitsch in Hallmark and imagine how I'm going to decorate my someday dream-home (which will be small and comfortable and easy to care for). I browse through the clearance racks at Dots -- seriously, nice work pants for $5! -- or talk to the people in the jewelry shops and food places who know us fairly well. I will admit to having hobbled down to the Bon-Ton one time and lay on the sample Sertas.

I was working with my manager that afternoon. I get along fairly well with her, although she has her faults, just as any other human person. She had called me in a panic that morning; our alarm codes were all changed recently, and she needed mine, rightnow, and after I read it to her she belted, "I'll call you back later" and hung up. Apparently the alarm went off for a half hour, and the security guards and police were there, and the alarm company refused to turn the alarm off until she told them her alarm code -- which she didn't have -- even as she offered to prove her identity.

She was, understandably, flustered.

But the day went fairly well otherwise, very steady, and the customers were good. (Retail folks know: there are Good Customers, who are open and amicable but don't pry, who are patient and cooperative -- and there are Bad Customers, who put you in a sour mood, because they don't see themselves as working with you, but against you, no matter which position you see yourself occupying.)

I took one half of a painkiller before leaving for work, and another half two hours later, maybe half after noon. I took my midday medications around two-thirty. And maybe an hour later, I went on break.

When I returned, I had to jump right into things; my manager had three people to be helped and only one of her. And the amount of customers only grew. It was a blur for the following hour; I was juggling at least two customers at any one time. Maybe ten minutes before five, as I was talking to a twenty-something couple who had just walked in to look at digital SLRs, the older couple behind them insisted that they were "just" there to pick up -- what, photos, a warehouse order? Those are quick to take care of -- no -- a camera. And I've learned as much in my time here: there is no such thing as a quick camera sale. We have a bundle of free crap, and some other valuable extras, that we have to explain to the customer. We may be a nationwide corporation, but we operate like a mom-n-pop shop; we explain the basics of working the camera for folks who don't already have a handle on it, for instance. You don't get that at Wal-Mart.

Anyway -- they were obviously not happy to be waiting in line, so I left this couple handling two entry level SLRs at the front of the store to run back and grab everything they were picking up -- which was not simply a camera. It was a printer, and a package of memory cards, and a bag, and a host of other accessories. And I started to wrap up the sale, explaining the Bundle of Free Crap to them, when one of my coworkers walked in. I called him over and handed the older couple off to him, asking him to explain everything to them and ring the sale up, saying -- out loud -- "I do have two SLRs out over here!"

I was flustered too.

The young couple was, in fact, a young family. It was their first time out with their ten-day-old son. He must have gone through four or five cycles of sleep and wake in his time there. They handled it exceptionally, for it being their first time; they would trade off holding him, or feeding him, or rocking him, while the other partner was talking to me. They were very gracious, and the sort of customer who is easy to talk to. It was obvious the husband was more invested in the decision than the wife (who, being a new mother, was also exhausted; he didn't seem to understand why she kept going to sit down at the print bar) although they were both interested.

They ended up buying the Nikon D40, which is being cleared out -- photography, just like fashion, has a spring line that pushes out the last season's worth of product -- and the zoom lens. I went through everything they would need (bag, memory card, filters...) with them, explaining it to them the whole way. At one point, my manager, who was getting her things together to leave -- it being well after five at this point -- teases me about my husband surely wondering where the hell I was. I had been avoiding saying anything, even though it had been on my mind the whole time, because you could tell these two were the sorts of people who would feel bad for it -- and yes, they did.

I explained the damage protection and the rewards club; I explained the Bundle of Free Crap item by item; I pulled together the financing paperwork and called it in; I bragged about our brand new lab (which comes bundled with higher expectations for certain photofinishing products)... I don't know how many customers had come and gone in that time, but it was a lot, and they were, eventually, the only ones left. My manager had gone. My friend/coworker/replacement was cleaning up the mess inevitably left when we get slammed like that, and don't have the time to put everything neatly in its proper spot.

They left, happy, and thanking me profusely, around six-thirty. And once they were out of sight, my entire body fell slack, and I let out a long sigh. And I noticed --

It had been at least six hours since I had taken a the medicine I normally take every two.

-- I felt the pain suddenly. I hadn't even noticed, not that entire time.

And here's the thing. There are a lot of times when I don't notice the pain. That was my state for basically the entirety of my childhood. I had no reason to believe otherwise, so I learned to categorize how I felt as normal, because there was no outward indication that it wasn't.

But when I finally stop doing, and let myself just be, the pain makes itself apparent, bit by bit.

That's the problem with my early years. I never let myself stop. I shouldn't have to stop, was my unconscious thought process, because there's nothing abnormal going on to make me have to stop. And so I would force myself forward, no matter what. Even when I was sick. Even when I felt miserable.

And here's another thing. I missed some ungodly amount of school days every year, from pre-K to graduation. But that doesn't mean that I wasn't pushing myself to continue, attending school when I was sick and sapped, when I should have been home by any reasonable measure. It's just that I was in such a condition as to be missing that much school even while I was putting forth such greater effort than most of my peers, even the most driven of them.

Enough of those other things.

I made my way to the back, where I kept my belongings, and called my husband to apologize. And after a quick chat with friend/coworker, I left for home.

OK: here's one last thing.

Even after resting my tired body for the remainder of the day, and heading to bed early, and rolling out of bed a bit late -- even after my husband helped me wash myself in the shower this morning -- even after the painkillers --

I felt awful today. The first words I heard as I walked into work today were "You look tired."

And I put on makeup today. For the first time in weeks. Even with three types of concealer over the dark circles under my eyes, I managed to look significantly worse than usual, in terms of physical condition.

I was slow and sluggish. I slurred when I spoke (quietly). I shuffled instead of walking. I sat down any opportunity I was given.

Understand this: I am a driven person. When I am not weighed down by the pain and exhaustion, I am up and moving, doing, always doing something. I throw myself into whatever I am doing. I don't slack. I don't dawdle.

I suppose, though, in the end, I am that way because of this weight I carry. If I don't put everything I am into whatever I am doing, chances are it won't end up done.

The point of all this is that my pain is not a simple addition and subtraction problem. When I was helping that couple, I felt like I could keep going just fine. But I can't trust that feeling. I kept going, in this case, out of necessity. But all that time on my feet, upright, good posture, being social, keeping my shit together -- all of it without my pain medication -- I couldn't just make up for that by taking my medication (which I did) and resting for awhile. That shit builds up, even the smallest of it, and for every inch you add, there's a mile more I have to go to make up for it.

If that makes sense.

I'll leave you with something I have noticed over the years: if I'm not smiling, I'm not well. Really not well.

Friday miscellany

This was my 100th post. Cue confetti.

I may have an opportunity soon to get into photography. Not selling cameras or developing film. Actual photography. My friend/coworker does some portraiture and events on the side, but she'd like to develop that into a full-fledged photography business and has expressed interest in having me take part in that. I may be helping her with her next wedding ("Do you have any problems with it being a gay wedding?" Laughter.) just to get my feet wet. Given that I have had considerable anxiety about ever branching out into professional photography on my own -- I don't want to give someone subpar work on something that can't exactly be re-done, like their wedding day, because I was a newb and made the inevitable newb mistakes -- this would be perfect for me. Low pressure.

I am jonesing for a few new skirts. Full, swishy, longer skirts. (But not full-length -- something more from knee to calf length.) Summer is approaching and I've always hated shorts, but jeans are going to be unbearable. Plus, the swooshy skirts are just so much damn fun. It appears the style this spring is to put pockets on the skirts again, something I think is awesome, because I don't like to have to reach into my bra to pull out my chapstick.

Ahem.

Also, for the record. I don't like chocolate. I don't hate it -- I can eat it, in moderation. It makes me very thirsty (let me repeat for emphasis here, very thirsty) and it's not a taste I'm really wild over. However. My husband's parents gave me a solid chocolate computer from Sarris' for Christmas, and it sat uneaten for a couple months. And Oh. My. God. That is some divine shit right there. If there are any other chocolate non-fans like me out there, I seriously recommend getting your hands on some chocolate from Sarris (a local company, based in Pittsburgh, factory located in Canonsburg). You may find a renewed interest in the stuff.

Other popular food items I don't particularly care for: ice cream, pizza.

Ever since I went off the birth control and started the Lupron (can't really separate the two) I have been having these awful spasms in my lower back. It's not tremors; it's a single spasm, a strong jerk of the spine from somewhere in the upper pelvis area.

And it's getting fucking annoying.

I used to have spasms all the time; back in middle school, I was having them daily. Back then, though, it was at the base of the skull. A couple years after I started on the trazodone (Desyrel, an antidepressant, though I used it as a sleep aid) (twelve years of age), my doctor put me on cyclobenzaprine (Flexeril) to reduce muscle tension, and the spasms mostly disappeared.

It's both startling and outright painful. In the former case, it feels like a sharp bony hand reaching in through your skin and gripping your brain, like someone sticking a sharp needle filled with poison right in through the base of your skull. The whole body goes stiff and it takes a moment for me to crack my neck back into normalcy and free my head of the demonic interference. In the recent case, it feels much the same, except that it actually physically moves my body around, and jolts my very, very tense shoulders -- the same shoulders I go to great lengths not to strain, because pain in the shoulders inevitably travels upward, and if there isn't sufficient intervention (in whatever way -- painkillers, heating pads, lying down to take the weight of gravity off my head and neck, etc.) ends in a disabling migraine.*

And I've had to explain this as best I could to my husband, who gets a kick out of sneaking up on me, that surprising me is ok, but when you marry a physical sensation to that startling, what I get is, for lack of a better word, an intense shock, and it isn't painful in the immediate sense of the word (like getting a cut or a bruise) but it just does this thing to my nervous system, and it's just as bad as outright "pain." On the level, perhaps, of a sucker punch to the gut, or cracking your head off a wall or floor (when it's not serious enough to concuss or make unconscious).

Maybe the problem is just that we don't have a concept for that kind of "pain," as a society, because most people have never really experienced it.

Whatever it is, I'm tired of it. It happens in bed, it happens at work, it happens when I'm doing the dishes or sitting here at the computer. Maybe it's a reaction to the Lupron, maybe it's an interaction with any of my numerous other medications. I'll bring it up next visit to my wonderful gynecologist, but for now, I'm just sick of it.

*I use the word disabling quite literally here. When shoulder/neck pain and/or a headache become a full-fledged migraine, for me, I'm down for the count. I have to have a soft place to rest my head (and body), free of light or sound, so I can curl up and just wish for death instead of actually acting it out. I can't scream, can't cry, can't groan, because the movement inflames the pain. You can tell when I'm headed that way, because I speak very softly, attempting to control my speech such that my mouth moves as little as possible. My shoulders, neck and head stay stiff, because any movement causes pain, and pain building up such that it becomes unbearable is the whole problem. There's a point where there's no turning back, and I have to just suffer it out, taking the painkillers not because they're going to make me feel any fucking better, but because if I don't, it's never going to go away. I can be stuck in this situation for a day -- it never goes away in mere hours -- or for weeks on end, depending on how bad it is, how much I did, whether I can take the adequate time and have an adequate space in which and adequate resources with which to recover.

There was one time, during my first attempt at college, that I was in one of the art rooms for my 2-D Design class (with my favorite prof in the world), working quietly on whichever project it was at the time, surrounded by fellow students working quietly on theirs. And the simple scratching of pencil on bristol, rustling of paper, adjusting of seats, the hum of the lights overhead -- I was ready to throw up, and I knew I had hit that turning point, and I knew that I had to get my ass in my car and drive home right then, because five minutes from now I might not be able to drive safely, or at all. So I gathered my shit, quietly, stiffly and robotically -- moving my body, and especially my shoulders, as little as possible -- and left. Fortunately the prof had gone out on errand, because I would not have had the time or strength to stop and stand and tell him why I was leaving, and have him ask was I ok, and would I be ok and is there anything he can do and make sure you get this done or whatever -- I doubt I would have been able to conduct myself safely in a moving vehicle if I had waited through that, and forced myself to speak, against every inclination of my aching body. I left, without saying a word even to my class partner, and walked as quickly as I could while exerting as little force as possible (do you folks know how fucking hard that is? when you're in that state?) to my car, and threw my shit on the passenger seat and lowered myself down into my seat, and squinted my tired eyes the whole way home, and every step I took up to the second-floor apartment jarred up through my body from heel to skull, and I closed and locked the door to my room and fell down in bed, and I don't remember anything after that. To tell the truth, I don't remember anything after walking out the art room door, but I can tell you what I did because I know exactly how it goes, I've done it so many times.

And you know, I find it interesting that I cannot come up with an adjective that describes the intense sharp pain I felt in my entire body. I know aching, tired, sore, etc. but none of those describe that awful feeling, the tense and stabbing feeling over every inch of skin and miles deep below it. Granted, I've never been good at vocabulary.

Wherefore art thou feminist?

It seems to be a common question these days.

I remember the first time I visited Nezua's site and admired his serious design skillzzz.* And scrolling down his sidebar, I hit upon this image:


and stopped.

It seems particularly appropriate now.

Why am I a feminist? Because I don't know how else to describe, concerned with issues of gender. Of course, gender is not the end-all-be-all oppression, as we all know. Thus, the genius of whomever thought up the term intersectional. But an intersectional approach has been around and widely practiced for quite some time now, and yet we find ourselves in this same rut. Concerned with issues of gender -- for people who are white, het, cis, abled, etc. Concerned with issues of gender -- for people who are dominant in every other way. Concerned with issues of gender -- for those who have no other concerns to be concerned about.

But when so many of us live at those intersections, “intersectional analysis” can’t simply be a tool in feminism’s toolbox that gets whipped out to take care of us every now and then. It has to be the place that feminism lives at. Holly

So, I understand those who have become disillusioned with feminism after it has time and time again demonstrated itself to be on the side of the oppressor in any case where gender is not the only concern. What good are our words, our promises to do better, to try, next time!, when those promises are so quickly forgotten?

Myself? I have found an incredible community of women who are working to better the lives of those disadvantaged and battered down. I will continue to learn from them. And I will continue to explore outside my little privileged corner here, and learn from communities of persons who are working to better the lives of those disadvantaged and battered down in other ways. Whatever they call themselves. Because I think they're worth listening to, learning from, and working with either way.

I think it would do us all well to take another look at that image up there.

*Of course, his writing is sublime, but my brain does not always allow me to process such rich text, as it were. So I would visit his site on occasion, but sometimes my brain is running a 3.2ghz cpu, and sometimes it's running on 0.8ghz. In any case, dude's a talented dude, and you'd probably be better served reading his artful writing than my half-baked babbling.

You know.

In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.

I haven't written on the recent dustup. A lot of people have. (See Cara for example.)

And I feel those words. And I don't want to be silent.

But at the same time, I don't know that anything I say is what's going to matter, in the end.

One funny thing I’ve noticed lately is that amid the constant clamor of honky chick “allies” enjoining unenlightened honky chicks to “listen” to women of color, it is harder than ever before to hear much of anything except honky chicks clamoring at other honky chicks.

So. Rather than involving myself again in this fight that will not die -- I'm going to shut the fuck up, and start (and continue) reading what women of color have to say. And though I have no up to lift their voices, I'm going to let them do their own talking.

I've said it before: I have a lot to learn.

Consider

And it doesn’t matter how much you may *think* you support women of color; you can’t self-proclaim yourself an ally. That’s for the oppressed group to decide. Ico

This rings true, circumstances (and particular social class) regardless.

God, I am sick of

this primary.

Well, not so much the primary.

I am sick of calls for Clinton to drop out of the race.

I am sick of "tearing apart the party."

I am sick of "cares only about herself/her ambitions."

I am sick of the insecure assertions that Obama already has the nomination tied up, and Clinton has no chance to win, when both candidates are within reasonable reach of the nomination.

I am sick of assertions that the superdelegates have a responsibility to vote based on the popular vote/non-super delegate count (whichever is more favorable to their candidate, of course).

I am sick of how obvious the motivations behind that assertion are. If the superdelegates are obligated to replicate the will of the people, they have no purpose whatsoever. If people truly believe it is undemocratic that the superdels vote any other way, they should be arguing that there should be no superdelegates, not piddling around how they should justify their votes.

I am sick of people complaining about Clinton's call for Michigan and Florida to be counted, saying that she does so only because it is in her self-interest, while then turning around and making the two above arguments, as though they are being Objective and Rational and Above It All.

I am sick of the fucking misogyny that has reared its head in this primary, and how even so-called progressives can't seem to criticize Clinton without framing their argument in sexist slurs and stereotypes.

I am sick of the ugly racism that has made itself known across the country. The obvious white antipathy to being reminded that race exists, no less racism, even if it stays thousands of miles from ever implicating them personally. The Brown Menace, secret Muslim-ism, the deep-seated fear of the Angry Black Man. I am sick and tired of the unconscious but vehement effort put into preserving the system of white supremacy.

I am sick of the reflexive move to knock back down any woman in any position of power. Put her in her place. Remind her. Make it known that she can play the game, but she can never win.

I am sick of people who say that if their candidate doesn't win the nomination, they will defect and vote instead for McCain. What kind of fucking moron are you? Is it going to take a few knocks of the skull against a cement brick for you to regain consciousness and realize that yes, there are differences between Clinton and Obama, significant ones even, but that McCain is going to be outright dangerous for the country compared to either of the two? I understand those who choose not to vote for the Democratic candidate if said candidate does not meet their standards; I do not understand those who would then vote for a candidate who spits upon their standards.

I am sick of all of this. Shame on all of you. Fuck this. I'm tired of it. I will vote for either Democratic candidate in November, but I'm damn well not returning to read, watch or listen to some of you who resort to such tactics as you yourself would condemn when used by Rush Limbaugh or Karl Rove. Yes, I just compared you to those two fuckwits. You may not perform such grand evil, but you are feeding into their narratives. And you should damn well feel ashamed about it.

I have never voted in a primary contest before. I've only been old enough to vote in one presidential election. I have been excited for over a year now about my opportunity to vote for a candidate I was actually exicted about in an election that will actually matter.

And I got my twenty minutes of cheery happy yay-America-ness. And then I came back to the real world. And my enthusiasm for this party is just about shattered.

Way to gear up the youth of America, folks.

Self-fulfilling prophecy

Sez Ez:

I've been trying to make this point throughout the week, but Paul Waldman is pithier than I am.

Reporters will choose to write about flag pins. They will choose to write about whether some catastrophic, heretofore hidden character flaw has been revealed by a comment a candidate made, or by a comment somebody who knows the candidate made. They are not merely conduits for the campaign's discourse, they create the campaign's discourse, as much as the candidates themselves.

Ah, but didn't Hillary Clinton criticize Barack Obama over his "bitter" comments? Doesn't that justify a week of relentless, repetitive discussion? Yes, she did (as he has criticized her before on matters equally trivial). But on that day, she probably held half a dozen campaign events and talked about a hundred different things. Had reporters wanted, they could have written stories about what she said about health care, the economy, Iraq, or just about anything else. They chose instead to write about this. The time is long past for them to stop pretending they have nothing to do with how trivial a campaign becomes.

On some level, the media gets this -- it's the essential conflict of interest that runs like the San Andreas fault line right through the center of the profession. But because they haven't figured out a way to it, they by and large refuse to talk about it, because if you talk about it, then it's real, and you're both open to the criticism and obligated to figure out a transparent fix.

What is "the media"? It's cable television network news. It's local television news. It's national news magazines and papers, and local news magazines and papers. It's advertising companies. It's film, it's radio. Talk shows, commentary. It's even blogs. (No longer are they so marginalized as to be able to avoid the "mainstream" label.)

And this media shapes the discourse in this country, in this state, in this neighborhood.

They do not control every detail, but they provide the basis, the foundation, upon which the populace builds its conventional wisdom.

They know this, obliquely. They know it deep inside, but they can't allow themselves to acknowledge it, because that would oblige them to pay attention. It would make clear their burden. They would have to take responsibility for every small thing they say. And that is too far-reaching an implication for them to accept it.

And so they don't. They detach themselves entirely. They say that the people dictate their coverage; they don't dictate the people's thoughts. They willfully ignore that this is not a one-way transaction, but a complicated interaction in which all sides feed, and feed off, one another.

But that's too much to consider. And tomorrow we will undoubtedly hear about the color suit Clinton wore during her campaign events on election night. And it goes on.

Word

Nobody’s ever defended themselves against assault charges by claiming “it doesn’t hurt when I punch me,” and you’d presumably think it pretty ridiculous if they had.

By the way,

Spot the kitty.

Felis domesticus is excellent at camouflage.

Buddy sez "HAI"

Catblogging has been spare of late because my computer is in a state of transition -- so I haven't been doing much photo editing (though still plenty of photo-taking).

Yo. 'Sup?
Oh, you wanted to use your computer?
Well, too bad.

Conversation

This has been on my mind lately, as I slowly page through the vast material on disability rights, activism, social model...

Are there privileges within disability?

I speak as someone with "invisible" disabilities. I know that because of this, I am afforded more access to society than persons with visible disabilities, in multiple ways. Doors, walkways, and seats are designed for my body (at least in purely spacial terms; many seats are untenable for my sore bones). Counters are built at a height that approximates convenience for me. And in purely social terms, people do not look at me and think "disabled." (Neither do they look at me and think "abled" -- as an abled body is the default body, it requires no thought at all.) Thus I am treated as though I were a full person. Any condescension directed my way tends to be because I am young and female. And, at least in my experience, I am still more of a person in most eyes as a woman than I would be if I were instantly identifiable as handicapped.

I am tenderly aware of this condition. And I wonder whether other pwd, those challenged in different ways, see this condition as one of privilege. And I worry, when I talk about disability, about appropriation. About using words that pwd have used for themselves for ages, even though ostensibly they do not apply to me. About taking up a banner that has been carried throughout the years by people who do not have the advantage of being able to blend in, to pass.

And I figured I would put this out, as a request for the thoughts of those who approach the world from an atypical place.

I do want to clarify that I still do suffer barriers to participating fully in society. There is a reason I quit study, twice, even though I miss college dearly -- no matter how I have attempted to adapt, I cannot read physical, printed-on-paper text at length; it inevitably triggers my disabling migraines, which I go to great lengths to prevent. There is a significant degree of cognitive impairment from the fibromyalgia to begin with, and when you add the medications I require to function day-to-day, my ability to concentrate and process thought is considerably decreased. I can never stop being aware of my physical capacity; if I go out on a walk, I have to keep in mind how much energy I have in reserve -- after all, I have to be able to make it back home. If I value my health, I can never stop thinking about it.

This is to explain the place I am coming from. I do detect a defensive tone on re-read, and I apologize for it. Know that it is not directed at pwd or progressive allies; it is a reflex built up by years of fighting a system that assumes that because I look "healthy," any complaints (of personal pain or of societal barriers) must be overblown.

What are your thoughts? Where are you coming from? What barriers do you face? What privileges do you see? What do you think we can do to address these?

(I am very nervous about putting this one out there -- please do offer criticism if you have any, but please be gentle. Keep in mind I am relatively new to all this.)

Hah

I gotta say, I respect my new geographical neighbors. The national media was working itself up into a lather about Obama's remarks about working-class Pennsylvanians, and then it turned out that, here in actual non-Philly PA (those same voters about whom Obama was talking), nobody gives a shit. I hope all of these pundits who pride themselves on being "in touch" with the average Joe down here on the ground (who is lucky to count unpaid vacation days among his benefits, much less owning his own vacation home) feel the sweet, sweet sting of pwnage.

And just now, my husband emails me this:

Politics stops at the water's edge -- even if that water's frozen, apparently.

About 57,000 more households in the Pittsburgh region tuned in to watch the Penguins beat up on the Ottawa Senators than tuned in to see two senators (Obama and Clinton) beat up on each other in the Democratic presidential debate, according to Nielsen Media Research.

The hockey game played in 175,000 -- or 23 percent -- of all households in the Pittsburgh metro market, while the blame game played in 118,000 households -- or 14 percent of the market, according to Nielsen.

Pittsburghers know better than to think that debates moderated by TV "journalists" are worth anybody's time. They neither inform nor edify; they aren't entertaining; they have nothing to do with our actual lives. We'd rather you broadcast ol' Sax Guy playing the Addams Family tune on a two-hour looop than watch a couple of blowhards play the same old tired gotcha game with two politicians who'd be better served catching a few hours of much-needed sleep.

We're too smart for you, o MSM. Neener neener.

Snapshots

Husband and I are going over the finances. It's a bit of a tight time (I say this, mind, knowing that we are trying our damnedest to land round two Penguins playoff tix, and have already bought Pirates-Yankees tickets, and things like how I have been on the lookout for a cute new headband/scarf lately -- so we are not poor, just cutting it a little close).

He and I did argue a bit for a few days about how to handle the finances. We already use Quicken -- something we both refer to as "the best investment we've made" (bought mere days after I moved in) -- but we use separate computers. One with XP, one with Vista. And apparently, filesharing is damn near impossible 'tween those two. And I hate to "nag" at him to sit down with me and update the finances together. And so we were hitting a bit of a wall, there.

Anyway -- we are deciding to sit down together nightly (for now) -- so that I don't have to be the one "pushing" him into it, and we bypass the filesharing problems. But we were discussing, for lack of a better term, allowances.

And husband objected.

I don't know what else to call them. As I told him, it's a constant in every financial arrangement between partners I've seen -- some amount of money each partner can have to spend on items without having to run to the other partner for approval, whether it's "$20/month" or "everything I earn after the bills are paid."

But it makes him uncomfortable. Certainly in a gendered sense (the Man, Bringing Home The Bacon, giving the Wifey her little "allowance") but also because we are both sensitive to any implication of control or abuse on his part -- I grew up in a family absolutely soaked in domestic abuse and my own mother has, projecting, called him "controlling" several times.* He is constantly monitoring his own behavior for any sign of this being true. I am constantly watching my life as a whole to make sure it does not happen to me -- partly for me -- but partly, as well, because I am desperate not to pass that paradigm onto my future children.

Anyway -- just a bit of a fragment I felt like pointing out.

*See, to her, she started losing control of me, and then he showed up on the scene. I, being a mere child (a girl, no less) with no agency (even in my mid fuckin' twenties) of course cannot be the one to have gained control of my own self -- there was a MAN in my life now, so he must be the one controlling me! This is a result of the way she grew up -- this is the only concept of a man in a relationship with a woman that she has. She simply cannot understand it happening any other way. And that is just damn depressing -- and a reason I am very, very sensitive to even the slightest sign it may happen in my own life.

I've calculated my age to be...

approximately 71.

The average age of menopause is 51 years, and they say fibromyalgia adds twenty years to the body...

:)

First Lupron shot was yesterday. It was a bit strange -- normally there's that whole dance in the doctor's office: they hand you the gown, then close the curtain (and the door) behind them, let you change, drape a sheet over the "private" parts, and come back in once you're all gussied up. I always have to laugh at it, because I certainly have no qualms about seeing my own genitals. I understand the reasoning behind it, most certainly, but it still feels a bit silly to me (when I'm visiting a doctor I trust, anyway...)

This time, my husband and I walked back to the room, the nurse closed the door and instructed me to lower my pants and lean against the examining table with one leg relaxed. I waited a moment to see if she'd leave -- no, she stood there preparing the injection. I looked at my husband. He certainly had no answers (I don't think this is an experience he's at all familiar with). So I obliged.

The shot was nothing. Bloodwork hurts worse than that. I hardly even noticed the needle.

But I didn't expect it to kick in quite so quickly. Symptoms are supposed to worsen for the first few weeks, and boy did they ever -- I got out of bed before 8:30 this morning, unable to fall back asleep for the pain. Lower back, lower abdomen. None of the medication is really helping it at all. (It's rare, on a day when I have nowhere to be, for me to get up before maybe 10AM. I purposefully sleep as much as I possibly can, in an attempt to make up for the fact that my sleep is only fractionally as effective as a "normal" person's.)

At least I know I don't have to work today, so I can take things at the pace I need to.

Penguins 4-0 Shutout Redux

YESSSSS

But I have to say...

Why the 'stache, Sid? Whyyyyyyy???

You don't have to be normal.

...the person who believes 'I will be real when I am normal' will always be almost a person, but will never make it all the way.

Eugene Marcos (via, via)

We have been told all our lives that to be accepted, to be successful, to be a whole person, we have to be "normal."

And so we strive to change ourselves such that we resemble normalcy.

But it is a rare bird that can adapt itself to living in the water -- or fish that can adapt itself to fly.*

Respect your body and your mind. They operate how they operate, and there is no need to change that, not for anyone's sake. It is not a deficiency. It does not make you lesser. It is not deviancy. It is what you are, and it is good for you.

People on the outside will be uncomfortable with the implications of such a weird and different body (mind) being a good thing, because we have all been indoctrinated into the cult of dominance, where what dominates is Good and Right, and anything that is not the same is Bad and Wrong. It manifests itself in so many different ways even for the same differences. But that is the root of it.

To outsiders, the idea that what you are is definitionally good, because it is good for you, a different person, is disturbing. To outsiders, it says that then, what they are must be bad. And those who think that way will therefore reject you as a person, differences and all.

But there is a different way. There is a way built, fundamentally, on respect. On allowing one another to be what we are, and finding joy in what results. On knowing that when a person falters trying to live in this society, it should not be chalked up to the fact that they are different, but to the fact that society has failed to plan for anything but the dominant, and will then fail in trying to accommodate anything else.

It rests on, again, seeing a person and thinking not: burden, but: potential.

On seeing that person, and recognizing them as a person.

We should all be prepared to accommodate differences, even when it means a change or an extra effort. We should be prepared for this, because we expect as much already from those we are failing to accommodate. We already expect them to change their very being to be able to accommodate how we operate. So we should not protest when we are called upon to open our minds, to change how we think, to change what we do. After all, at least we are not being asked to change what we are.

*I hesitated with this metaphor. I was afraid of the implications. The usual stuff, that pwd are of an entirely different species, that pwd are animals, that pwd are at base un-understandable and therefore nobody should even try. ("We are nearer still when we know we don't have to understand somebody to know he is real.") But at the same time, I don't want to shy away from the implication that we are not all the same. That is what we are pushing to accept. Everyone approaches the world in hir own way, and that is ok, and we don't all have to come from the same place to be able to travel together.

At the same time, I am just taking my first tentative steps in this direction, and I know I will fumble at times. So I invite all thoughts and criticism, so that we can all understand better.

getting my toes wet

Blog roll additions:

another Amanda
cripchick

I'm just beginning to explore the WoC and disability communities.
I am learning a lot. About myself, and about the world around me.

I am still a newbie to feminism, relatively. It's only been four years since I even began to identify as slightly liberal (hah!) and we all know that in practice, feminism doesn't tend to go hand-in-hand with mainstream liberalism.

I am learning day by day. I am making a lot of mistakes. I am fumbling along trying to understand how everything works, how to reconcile my life and my experiences with the world at large.

I will continue to change over time. It comes with being a living being. I will continue to change, and grow, and expand. I look forward to it.

Interlude

Surely Pittsburgh sports fans will recognize Sax Guy.

(my own photo, thankyouverymuch)

Hi, Sax Guy!

I look forward to a Pirates season full of Pink Panther melodies walking the bridge over the Allegheny River.

this is new to me. this idea that i should love my body. not hate it.

it's funny, because i was about to say "this isn't a post about body image." but it is, isn't it?

let's cut to the point. i'm not talking about beauty standards.

i'm talking about my body. this physical thing.

i need to stop hating that physical thing.

it works differently. it doesn't work like your body.

but that doesn't make it bad.

this is hard to grasp. i don't like this idea.

but maybe it's better that i respect my body, and how it functions, than malign it, and Other it, and see myself as working against it.

maybe i need to see my body as that physical thing that is trying to help me be everything i want to be.

maybe i need to understand that i just have to interact differently with my body to accomplish that.

and that is not bad. that doesn't make me Less Than. that doesn't even make me different -- or it shouldn't, anyway.

maybe the problem is that i have been so indoctrinated into this culture that i can't even see myself as just being -- it's always how different i am from the "normal" "healthy" body.

you know what, dammit, my body is "healthy." my body is damn well fucking "normal" for me. when i understand how to work with it? i live a pretty damn nice life.

but the culture i live in doesn't allow for that view. the culture i live in says that my body is not only different, but different in a bad way, because it doesn't let me live my life like a normal person does.

fuck that.

i have a lot to work on, here.

revelation: i wouldn't have such a hard fucking time learning how to work with my body if my culture hadn't taught me to expect to be The Norm. if my culture hadn't taught me that if you look like you're fully-abled, then you must be. if my culture hadn't taught me that if it doesn't show up in the bloodwork or the ultrasound then it doesn't exist. if my culture hadn't taught me that my pain is simply pathology. if my culture hadn't taught me about welfare queens and "milking the system." if my culture hadn't taught me that disability is both scary and pathetic.

in the meantime, i need to go take my weekly shower, so my gynecologist isn't put off by my oh so gross body when i get my Lupron shot tomorrow.

...maybe i just need to understand that this is how my body works and damn it all, there shouldn't be anything wrong with that -- the fact that there is anything "wrong" is a sign of a fucked up culture -- not of a fucked up body.

Words to be heretofore stricken from the English language.

"A racist."

As in, "That person is a racist."

There is no such thing as "a racist." This suggests a person is unique in practicing race-based bigotry. In fact, every single one of us both practices racism and benefits from a racist societal structure.

This can take the form of "overt" racist actions (using "the n word") or "subtle"/"passive" racist actions (picking a house in a "good" neighborhood; avoiding certain routes when walking to work; contributing to a matching 401(k); attending a prestigious university; eating a balanced, "healthful" diet). After all, a white person's ability to do any of these things does depend, in part, on hir benefitting from white privilege, from having had generations of stable family life, from living in an area with access to fresh foods and having the time and energy to prepare them.

It does not matter whether you chose something purposefully (or whether it is entirely out of your control), or whether you intended it to work against persons of color (or whether you were oblivious to its effects or even has nominally positive intentions). These actions, behaviors and attitudes still feed into the racist system.

Racism is not a quality that individual people hold; racism is a structure upon which we are all built and into which we all feed. Racism is a description of actions, behaviors and attitudes, not of people.

I will keep pounding this point for the rest of my days. And it holds steadfastly true as well for sexism, for classism, for ableism, for homophobia, and for all other sorts of bigotry and discrimination.

Effect, not intent, is what matters in the end.

Therefore, if you give a shit about making a difference, maybe you should stop getting so hung up over your (or anyone else's) intent, and start directing your concern toward the effect your life has on our situation.

Maybe if we would all start looking at things this way, we could affect some actual change.

Submitted without comment

President George W. Bush, in response to a question of how to protect Christians in Iraq:

Well, one thing we can do is to keep our troops there long enough to have a civil society emerge, and go after them, and go after these killers, and bring them to justice so they quit killing people, including our own troops, because this is a war.

How To Be A Feminist Boyfriend

I've always had trouble translating my ideas into words with any consistent level of accuracy. It's not often that writing and speaking come easily to me, and I feel like I am expressing myself effectively. Most of the time, I am fumbling around, trying to shape a vague image of what's going on in my head, by trial and error. And I often end up frustrated because it's obvious that the idea I'm apparently communicating with my words is not the idea I was trying to communicate when I put those words together.

All of which is a clunky introduction to the fact that I feel like I was misunderstood here:

So I opened the comments and immediately found that I was disagreeing vehemently with the first comment:

Deference is a privileged person’s best friend.

I would have no patience with someone flopping around acting all guilty and deferential to me. It’s happened before, and I hate it. I want respect, and deference is not respect.

That comment was mine.

Amanda goes on to make an argument that is very much what I was trying to get across.

By "deference" I meant:

• Know that her opinions come from experiences you have not had, and can never fully understand.
• Do not use this as a reason to dismiss her opinions; use this as a way to attempt to understand them.
• Give more consideration than you normally would when you are in a situation where you are the privileged one. No, this isn't "special treatment." It's attempting to compensate for the fact that, like it or not, you have been socialized to unconsciously devalue the opinions of those who are not like you. So take a step back, and think really hard about it. We're talking about your girlfriend, anyway; you should be affording her special consideration in the first place, because you respect her enough to want to be her partner -- right?
• You can still disagree. Privilege doesn't mean that your opinions and experiences must be erased, or that they cease to be valid.
• However: step carefully. If you think over things carefully, and decide that you know what, you just can't agree with what she's saying: make sure you are very careful in how you express that. Because, again, in our society, men are taught not to treat women as equals, but to dismiss them as hormonal, emotional, overreacting, irrational, etc. Even if you aren't thinking those words, you may be communicating them to her when you huff, roll your eyes, fold your arms, smirk, etc. (And she has been taught to be very sensitive to those words or the implication of them, so trust me, she will catch the slightest hint of them, whether you intend to give that hint or not.) Your inflection and body language, and even words outright, may be telling her that, basically, you don't give a shit. And a lot of the time, men actually don't give a shit. So she may not be wrong when she gets that vibe from you. And depending on any number of factors, she may call you on it -- or she may bury it inside, because she knows that if she reacts to it, you're going to shoot her down, because most people honestly don't want to admit that they don't care about their partner's feelings and opinions -- even when they really don't.
• SO: think hard before you open your mouth. And watch your body language when you are in an argument. You may be angry, but you need to make an effort to show that even though you two are not happy with each other right this minute, you still care about her.
• DON'T just say "OK" to anything she says, either because you are trying to compensate for privilege or because you're trying to get her to shut up (trust me, she knows it -- you'd be better off being honest on that matter, so she can call you on your disrespectful bullshit). That's not respect. Quite the opposite. That's failing to consider her argument at all -- just bypassing it altogether. And that shit is just madmaking, and I wouldn't blame her if she dumped your ass if you practiced it regularly.
• Remember that you are not in a contest. You are in a discussion. You are trying to work WITH your partner, not AGAINST her. When it's a straight-out fight, you are trying to understand each other's sides, and come to an agreeable conclusion for the both of you -- which won't happen if you're just trying to "win." When it's a topical conversation, you're sharpening your thinking and communication skills, working on understanding each other's viewpoints, learning from one another, etc. -- again, it's not a contest you're trying to "win." It's a conversation. Treat it that way.
  

All this is, as far as I can tell, basically the argument Amanda was making. I just didn't communicate that correctly -- I chose my word(s) poorly.

For the women:

*The side note to women, I suppose, is that it’s important to fight on the small things, even if the effort doesn’t initially seem worth it.

This is important to any relationship. Don't just let things go. Bring them up. Try to have a sense of perspective, certainly, but don't follow the patriarchal imperative to ignore any wrong your man does, because you're just being nitpicky/naggy/whatever. When you let something go unremarked-upon, you are building a mountain of anger, frustration and resentment, one sock on the floor at a time. And that is not healthy -- not for you (who suffers the stress), not for him (who isn't challenged to be a better partner, but becomes lazy and sloppy about the relationship), and not or your relationship as a whole (which will become strained at time due to unresolved conflicts he doesn't even know about).

That does not mean, however, that the weight is on the women's shoulders. Men: do your best to pay attention to this shit. If she seems put-off, ask her what's wrong, in a concerned and respectful tone of voice. She may laugh because nothing's wrong at all. She may say "nothing" in a flat or even annoyed tone of voice, in which case there is almost certainly something wrong -- whether it's something you did, or just that she's worried about a friend, or whatever -- and you need to tease that out. (Make it clear that it's ok if she doesn't want to talk, but make yourself open and approachable so that she can if she wants to.) And she may just say it up front, in which case, again, you need to step back, take a minute to think carefully about what she's saying, and then respond -- don't immediately step into defensive mode.

And try to pay attention when it comes to domestics. Try, one day, just watching what she does. You may not notice that she puts your coat away after you fling it on the chair, or straightens out the shoes, or replaces the cat's water every night, or wipes down the sink after use, or notices when you're getting low on toilet paper, or whatever. There's a lot of small things she does, silently, that you are probably not attuned to. And she would probably appreciate some help on some of that invisible work. And maybe if you stop, and pay attention, you can pick up on some of those things yourself, instead of waiting for her to get frustrated about it and open up on you for it.

Anyway: hopefully this makes my thoughts a little bit more clear. Certainly if any of this doesn't make sense or seems problematic, point it out to me in comments.

spoons

from 96dpi

This little spoon may be all I have. But damn if I'm not going to keep rocking that spoon for the rest of my days.

Penguins 4-0 Shutout

That was one of the most amazing games I've ever watched.

My best wishes for Senator Anton Volchenkov, who took a puck to the face; I do hope he recovers quickly. I was squirming every time they replayed that shot.

I've been amazed at my growing attachment to this game over the past year and change. No sport has ever excited me so much.

I just don't understand

Our neighbors to the left kept their air conditioner in their window all winter. For the last two days, they've had it running nonstop.

When I walked outside today, I noticed the neighbors downstairs have their a/c installed and running as well.

It's been a beautiful upper 60s/lower 70s for the last week or so. It's gorgeous outside. It's refreshingly comfortable inside with the windows open and the ceiling fans on low.

Why drag out the a/c now? Summer will be long and humid enough -- I'd rather not live like it's summer for any longer than I have to.

fragment

I need to start writing regularly again, and I'm not willing to artificially separate out the personal from the political. Any who make it through these personal posts, and even offer some help, have my regards and deepest thanks.

***

hearshot: so what else has been going on?
Sent at 8:39 PM on Sunday
amanda: right now?... work, cats, sleep, grocery shopping. insurance woes. cleaning house. not much else
hearshot: i can still be interested in your life even if it's the same old same old, you know
amanda: no, it's just that i can't even think of anything new to say
that's what i mean by "blank," really. besides the above, i just sit here reading blogs
...
amanda: i don't know
on the one hand, i am obviously so much healthier and have been doing great things since i moved here
hearshot: i... was not expecting that response
amanda: but on the other, i still just feel blank about it all
hearshot: in what way?
amanda: i don't feel the motivation to get up and do something with myself, at all
i could be out doing photography, i could be writing so much more... i used to love writing, and i hardly ever do it anymore
i could be creating something
i take pictures of the cats, and that's really it.
i don't have any friends besides [coworker] here
hearshot: i hate to say, but you sound rather like me
amanda: and i never go out with her
i miss college. i felt like i was doing something there
i'm doing something awesome here too, after all. i do have a great job, i work with people i largely like doing stuff i largely like. i'm teaching classes (did one tonight), gaining experience, and obviously making some money
it's not like i'm sitting on my ass all day doing absolutely nothing. my life is actually fairly full. but i guess i don't feel fulfilled.
my internal gauge still seems to be near "empty"
hearshot: i don't really know what to say
amanda: neither do i, obviously

***

I don't know what to do.

I had a long conversation with my husband (for whom I really need to come up with some witty pseudonym) on the subject, starting off by sending him the above conversational excerpt. It didn't end neatly in a solution; it was just some venting and some comforting, and I've been somewhat depressive since then.

I remember how connected I felt to myself and the world around me back when I was journaling regularly. I would have times where I'd fall out of writing, but they inevitably lasted no longer than a few months, and I'd be back again. But it's been a good year and a half now since I took to paper (so to speak) about my life.

As I said, I'm not willing to separate my personal and political writing anymore. You all know the mantra. It does make me somewhat nervous to write in public again.

I'm feeling disconnected right now. I've been noticing it since just after I moved here -- December 2, 2006. I started my anti-anxiety medication a month or two before that. I'm worried that may be contributing. But I'm afraid to mess with that, considering the severe mental crisis I went through in the summer of '06, living with my mother, trying to tie up loose ends in California before moving out here to PA, with her mental troubles flaring as my independence reached new heights, at the same time I was first making a go at life without an antidepressant (which I took, as a sleep aid -- not even aware of the antidepressant properties -- from ages twelve to nineteen). I'm in a healthier environment now, but that doesn't make the lack of "support" any less scary -- and I also worry about how it will affect me as I'm embarking on the Lupron treatment, not knowing yet how that will affect me.

There are also just too many external factors. I miss home. California. This is my home, here, in southwestern Pennsylvania. But I still just feel an ease inside when I'm in my home state. I haven't been there since our wedding last May, and that wasn't even a proper visit, but instead a three-day rush-around.

I'm still confused about my relationship with my family. Something broke this last Christmas. I went from feeling complete terror when considering anything to do with them, with my childhood, with my home -- to feeling rather relaxed, not entirely positive, but no longer so panicked. I don't know what changed. I really don't. I don't know what I feel.

I've lost steam. I don't even know what to say to myself.

for what it's worth

I don't like it when people pick on Condoleezza Rice for her facial expressions. The fact that a woman's face at rest isn't pleasant and bright shouldn't be something to use against her. I don't get the sense that she's deliberately scowling; there's room for interpretation there, certainly, but I don't feel that she should have to walk about with a smile plastered on her face at all times to be acceptable to the public at large.

UPDATE

I wanted to post my own clarification. :) The subject was brought to mind by this post over at Shakesville, Melissa's graphic in particular. My post here wasn't so much directed explicitly at her, however. It's an issue I've noticed repeatedly over the years; much of the criticism of Rice's facial expressions are overtly sexist, and it bothers me. Knowing Melissa's rationale, it's obvious she isn't coming from the same place. It is worth reflecting to consider whether one is reinforcing a patriarchal narrative; that reflection will naturally lead to different conclusions in different people, which is of course why we refer to feminisms, plural.

I do have to thank Melissa for reading and responding. I certainly understand her reasoning. I was pointing out something that made me personally uncomfortable, and hoping it might start a conversation that explored the issue a bit more, not trying to draw judgment.

(Also keep in mind this was a quick post I threw up while rushing about getting ready for work last night -- not so much a "very serious, thoughtful, argument that has never been made in such detail or with such care." ;))

I *heart* Elizabeth Edwards

Elizabeth Edwards is, by far, my favorite public figure. I see a lot of myself in her, and I see a lot of what I wish I could be in her. There's been no shortage of times I've wished that she would get involved in politics, not only her husband John.

All of which is to introduce this video of her throwing hardball at John McCain's so-called health care plan, pointing out that even John McCain would be refused health care under the plan he proposes:



The phrase "pet peeve" is not strong enough to describe my feelings toward the universal policy of preexisting condition exclusions. I consider them cruel and immoral. If only one thing could be changed about our health care system in America, I'd criminalize this sort of policy. Consider it like loaning money only to people who don't need it: so no mortgages, no car financing, no student loans. Nothing. The only way to qualify for a loan is if you can prove that you have no reason to need the money at all. Doesn't that sound, well, fucked up? That's because it damn well is.

Not surprised that the host of the show tried as hard as she could to get some sort of salacity out of Edwards. "Did you have a fight?" Good God, these people belong back on the schoolyard, if only for the safety of the rest of society. Elizabeth, as always, stays out of it, ever classy.

Sure! Sign me up!

What does it say about my experiences with the healthcare industry that when I see this:

Why do we want to know more about you?

In order to personalize the site to you, we need to know certain things about you. For instance:

• We need to know your age and gender to remind you of the check-ups you need.
• We've got a great pregnancy program so if you're pregnant, tell us and we'll help guide you through a healthy pregnancy.
• Your email and zip code helps validate that you signed up for the site and no one at our organization did it for you.
• And so on..

I read this:

Why do we want to know more about you?

In order to increase our profit margins, we need to know certain things about you. For instance:

• We need to know your age and gender so that we can "adjust" your premium and care accordingly.
• We've got a great pregnancy program so if you're pregnant, tell us so that your employer has the option to discriminate against you based on it.
• Your email and zip code helps us earn money by selling it off to spammers, both "legitimate" and il-.
• And so on..

Cynical and unfair? Yes. But when you've lived the life I've lived, in the body I've lived, with the experiences I've lived, you'll understand why I'm not so eager to provide my employers' insurance "discount" company* with any of this information.

*I'm required to have this insurance in order to be listed on my husband's insurance, and I have to have a denial from my employers' insurance before his employers' insurance will consider any claim at all. Which is kind of easy, considering the former doesn't cover anything anyway. Throw soon-to-expire Medicare and on-going tertiary Medical Assistance for Workers with Disabilities into the mix, and I've got a headache-inducing full-time job on my hands juggling all of the above.