Things That Make Me Cry
Wednesday, December 10, 2008

I'm actually a soft-touch when it comes to weeping. Sappy movies, empathy for others -- but in my day-to-day life, I don't get teary that often.

Tonight was an exception. There's nothing huge and tragic going on for me, just a lot, lot, lot of little things, but I'm feeling discouraged and down tonight, which is very unusual for me.

I think part of it is a series of gear-ups and let-downs that I've experienced recently. I really needed a webcam for a project that I'm working on, and I worked out this perfect trade with someone who had a great cam to trade me for something they wanted as badly as I wanted that camera. It arrived in the mail today, and I was all excited like a little kid -- but it doesn't work on my 'puter -- not without significant fussing, and expense. I just felt like someone had pulled the wind out of my sails.

Now this event, by itself, wouldn't have done that. But honest to fuck, the last couple of months have been challenging -- not in a death and dying, or broken bones/spilled blood way -- a printer that died (got another one from a friend, and it, too, doesn't want to work -- techno-HELL!), a huge slow-down in my work, concerns about my mom's health (that thankfully, turned out to be a false alarm), bills piling up, my Beloved and I talking about whether we can afford to keep living here, the beloved elder cat who is struggling with her health right now, and my own internal wonderings about what constitutes "right action" for me in all of it.

I've kept my chin up, really, through this and more -- every day, there is far more good than bad, and I've honestly felt that -- savored it -- felt rich in a time when money is thin because I am truly blessed in so many other ways. I'm a genuinely optimistic and upbeat person, and I've seen far, far worse times than this. Generally, I consider these inconveniences and challenges with equanimity -- but tonight -- I don't know -- tonight I am just feeling like my stuffings got knocked out.

It's such an unusual state at this point in my life that I'm not even particularly resistant to it -- it's new and unfamiliar in some way, and I'm just observing it and the inertia it seems to be breeding in me right at this moment.

Maybe it's because it was my "day off", and I was looking forward to R&R, and playing with the new camera that was supposed to (and did) arrive today. Instead, I ended up fussing, and googling, and trying to find workarounds, and freezing up my computer, and going to two stores to see if they had a part, and thinking that even if they did, I really shouldn't spend money on it, but the camera could be a source of income-production, so maybe I should spend money on it, and I was feeling so hopeful and upbeat and excited about it before all this happened -- and -- as I was driving away from the second store (that didn't have the part I probably shouldn't be spending money on anyway) on the way home, I just started bawling.

That's really unusual. It was that kind of sad, disappointed kid crying -- but I knew it wasn't just about the camera -- that was just the excuse for the release. It was a tired sort of weepy crying that says to me that I'm tuckered out.

It's not just the stuff in my personal realm, either, I don't think. I tend to believe in that stuff about "If you do what you came to do, the Universe will support you" -- so I think I'm having deep questions about what seem like frequent obstacles and tepid support recently -- questions about whether it's all a message that I need to be doing something -- or many things -- different/differently.

There's also the fact that I personally know people who are dealing with far, far more difficult things than I, so I feel a little weird and give myself a hard time that this shit is getting to me. Then I think, "Well, maybe I'm releasing for others who don't feel as comfortable releasing".

I honestly don't know. I just know that when I sat down to blog tonight, with all these ideas about what I might write, I found myself sitting there, staring at the computer, and needing to express this -- just to get it out there and out of my way, I suppose -- to clear the thing that's clogging the pipes.

So this is a post with little cohesion or direction -- just an expression -- like my tears in the car.
=========================

OK. I wrote that part so that you could see the kind of process that I go through every fucking year around this time.

You see -- around 49 years ago, I had a very bad thing happen to me at this time of year. I won't go into the details, because I'm not at all sure that they're important anymore -- suffice it to say that when people hear the full story, they always seem to look a little haunted afterward -- as I once was.

I spent years in therapy healing the wounds that resulted from that time of my life, and am now remarkably whole, considering my history. This time of year used to be a crushing weight for me -- a time of fear and depression and despair. For years, before I had any clear memory of what had happened to me, this crushing weight came down anyway, in the weeks before Christmas, and I spun like a top in a maelstrom of emotion.

After I remembered and began dealing with my past, the storm continued to descend annually, but at least I had some idea of what was going on for me. My understanding didn't mitigate the difficulty of this season, but it did at least give me some way to deal with it.

I stopped thinking of myself as just a neurotic mess and began thinking of myself as someone who was having a response. That didn't take away the fear, or erase the depression, or dissolve the despair, but at least I could grab onto my newfound intellectual understanding as some kind of anchor as I tossed and turned and whipped around and wailed.

For six-seven years of my life, healing was pretty much all that I did -- and slowly, slowly, I did heal.

Now, mid-December approaches me and I do not shrivel up and crawl into a corner.

In fact, it's gotten to the place now that, like tonight, I forget that I might be responding to something much deeper than the surface, physical events that are happening in my life -- that I may be experiencing an echo of something that, while mostly healed, still presents patches of scar-tissue in my psyche.

I forget, and an unexpected crying jag overtakes me in the car, and for a minute or two (or a half hour, or sometimes even an hour or two), I am very mean to myself about what a big baby I'm being -- and then -- I remember.

I remember that I am not a wimpy whiner who can't handle disappointment, but rather, a miraculous testament to the perseverance of the human spirit.

I remember that it's a miracle that I survived my childhood, let alone those years and years and years of confused anguish.

I remember that it's a miracle that I made it through the six years of constant examination of incredibly difficult material, and the inching advance toward wholeness.

I remember that it's a miracle that I am a basically optimistic, and that 99.9% of the time, I believe in the potential, goodness, and worth of human beings -- because the things that I survived might have just as easily turned me into a very justified cynic.

I remember that I am a miracle.

================
There is this particular sensation I get at very specific times -- not whenever I cry, but whenever I cry in this particular way. It comes when I watch movies that are very sad in a certain way -- usually about human beings being unjust to one another, or yearning in vain for real connection with one another. It's that heart-breaking stuff that gives rise to this sensation.

Anyway, when I cry in that particular way, from that particular stimulus, I often get this very distinct sensation in the side of the tip of my left index finger. It's always in exactly the same spot, and it's like a sharp pinchy ache. I can feel it as I start to tear up, and the more I try to suppress tearing up, the more it aches until I cry.

It was so consistent and so peculiar that I looked it up on an acupuncture chart -- the spot that hurts is precisely on the Large Instestine Meridian (LI1) -- and in some disciplines, the "negative" aspect of that meridian is associated with the concept of guilt. The affirmative emotion suggested for its healing is "I am inherently pure and good. I am worthy to be loved."

Tonight, as I started this post, still crying, and listening to little assholey arguers in my head like: "Well why in the world would you post that? What earthly good will that do? Why do you think these people would even care about you?" -- I kept crying, and I could feel that spot in my finger aching. I can feel it now.

Much of the healing that I've done has been about learning to stop thinking that what happened to me was my fault. It's weird to me, at an intellectual level, that I could think that -- I was three years old when it happened -- but there were once large parts of myself that thought that.

Those voices are dimmer now, and I don't give them much weight anymore, but I think that they are my last bit of healing to do -- the voices in my own head that discount my experience, and denigrate my own strength -- the voices that tell me I'm a cry-baby, or weak, or whining. I think the stingy ache in my finger is stimulated by that inhumanity that I harbor in my own head toward myself.

I will go gently with myself in these coming weeks. I'll let myself cry when I want and need to. I'll give myself permission to let myself off the hook when the little stuff seems overwhelming. I'll open my heart and embrace the miracle that I can open my heart.

I'm sharing this with you in case you're struggling with this season -- or in case you struggle with any season -- so that you can remember that you are a miracle, too.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 10:00 PM 8 comments  

Labels: True Stories, Very Personal Details

You Smell So Good It's Killing Me
Sunday, November 16, 2008

I live with someone who has MCS -- Multiple Chemical Sensitivities (also referred to as "Chemically Injured" or "Environmental Injury").

Strap in once more, because this may be a long post. I'm going to attempt to communicate some facts that may be of interest to you -- but first, I'm going to tell you why I'm writing this, and what it means to live with MCS. I'm going to tell you my story, but I'm also going to tell you what my story may mean for you.

My Beloved has always been sensitive to certain chemicals -- but in the past three years, that sensitivity increased.

Three years ago, exposure to certain chemicals would mean she experienced an accelerated heartbeat, skin flush, mental confusion, and an adrenal response that was like "fight or flight/I've-got-to-get-out-of-here!"

Then, as her sensitivity increased, it would mean having that suite of symptoms, followed by symptoms that were like a hangover (fatigue, body aches, general malaise, etc.) for a few hours or a day.

Then it became a few days.

Then, the effects of exposure would mean several days of headache, extreme fatigue, digestive complaints, and all-round OMG I FEEL CRAPPY.

Her exposure to things like paint fumes, pesticides, cleaning chemicals, and other known toxins was fairly easy to handle -- we were already pretty "green" in terms of our household products, because that fit with our general values of sustainability and environmental awareness -- but there is a particularly difficult scenario that has been much more challenging to control -- exposure to synthetic fragrances.

As we changed our lifestyle to rid our home of the stuff that makes her sick (which meant looking carefully at shampoo, soaps, lotions, laundry and cleaning products, toilet paper, and yes, even the books we purchased used on Amazon -- some sellers will package a book that's been in a smoker's home with a scented dryer sheet to mask the smell of smoke), I learned a lot -- about chemicals, and about myself.

I'm not as sensitive to chemicals as is my Beloved. I tend to have that sort of physical unit that processes toxins fairly quickly, and even if I don't like a particular fragrance or smell, it doesn't usually give me any physical symptoms. Or so I thought.

As our home got de-toxed, and our air got clearer, I found that I actually did get physical reactions to certain chemicals. They weren't as severe as hers, but they were there -- I just hadn't noticed them because they were subtle and so omnipresent.

Now, if I sit in a room with someone who is drenched in perfume for an hour or more, I'll actually notice the results afterwards -- a slight headache, reddened eyes, sinus congestion, and marginal fatigue.

The same exposure for my Beloved would result in much more extreme levels of the same, and for her, they can last from one to three days.

Recently, she's found some things that have helped reduce her symptoms and reactions, but still, when she ventures out into the world, she always carries a small mask in her pocket, just in case.

When the doorbell rings, I'm the one who answers, because even our UPS guys and gals seem to be obsessed with making sure I know that they are Teh Sexy with their mad scentz. I usually step out quickly and close the door behind me, so that a chemical that could make my love sick doesn't waft in through the door. And waft it does.

Getting on a airplane for a two-or-three hour flight would be a complete gamble at this point. We haven't traveled by plane for over two years.

We've asked our friends not to visit the house wearing fragranced products. They have tried to comply, but still, if they used fragranced laundry products like dryer sheets or fabric softener in the past (which are not only designed to have a "lasting scent", but often contain waxes that get inside your washer dryer so that the fragrance continues on for months after you stop using them), their clothes can have lingering fragrance that can make her sick.

Depending on how full her "toxin bucket" is on any given day, she may or may not be able to sit across the room from them for a chat, and she rarely gives hugs to them anymore, if there's a whiff of chemical fragrance. She seems to do fine with all-natural essential oils -- no synthetics (but please note: this is not true of all people with MCS).

Her primary response seems to be from synthetic fragrances -- and synthetic fragrances are in stuff you would never imagine. Many people who have MCS have much worse reactions than my Beloved does.

We've posted signs and sent emails to people who attend our circles and classes, asking them not to wear fragrance to our events. Sometimes they forget. We generally allow them to stay, and my Beloved dons her breathing mask. We remind them. Sometimes they forget again. We remind them again.

Sometimes their perfume is so strong that the chairs or cushions that they sit on retain the smell for days. We've taken to covering furniture with washable throws, but sometimes we just have to drag the furniture outside and let the sun and air do its work.

Keep in mind that for someone with severe MCS, contamination of this type might mean that they have to get rid of that piece of furniture entirely.

Friday, we had someone attend our regular group meeting whose perfume was so strong that it gave me a headache, and we had the room airing out (and closed off) for an entire day -- but there's still a lingering scent.

This person has been here before, and has been asked not to come wearing fragrance. When my Beloved approached her to talk about it (these conversations are often a bit awkward), she said that she had remembered about the fragrance-free request, and had given herself a quick wash, but hadn't taken a shower. (In some cases, even showering doesn't do much good, because the person's clothing is permeated with the scent, especially if it's something they wear every day.) We didn't want to send her away, so we chose to have her stay.

However, after the group met, my Beloved and I confabbed on this and we have come to the conclusion that we just can't do that anymore. We're going to maintain better boundaries about this, and do more education, and take care of ourselves.

Here are some non-scientific observations, and then I'll get into some facts:

1) It seems like my Beloved has a "toxin-bucket" -- when she hasn't been exposed to something that triggers her symptoms for a while, she can go to the library and pass someone who is wearing perfume and her reaction will be slight.

Then something will happen like: A person wearing fragrance comes to a class -- she'll do OK -- the next day, the neighbor's dryer vent is blasting Downy all over our yard -- she'll do slightly OK -- the next day, the wind shifts and the paper-mill steam blows over our way -- she'll do less OK -- that afternoon, the sewer pipe backs up and three City guys (all Ax Body Sprayed to the -enth degree) and one plumber (Calvin-Klein-ified) have to be in our house to fix the sewer.

Then, her toxin-bucket gets full, and she has to lay down for a good long while.

At this point, answering the doorbell if I'm not home is a crap-shoot. Going into the yard to get some fresh air (which usually is helpful for her when her symptoms are active) is sometimes impossible, because it could mean a snoot-full of neurotoxins in the form of a breezy, fresh new scent. Being called for jury duty could mean sitting with a breathing mask on for days at a time.

2. The nose is a peculiar beast. Think of how it is when you come home from a long time away, and smell the smell of your own home. Usually, you can't smell this, unless you've been away. You can smell other people's houses the minute you walk in, but once you've been there a while, you don't notice that smell.

We become desensitized to smells over a fairly quick period, so if we wear perfume or scented products over a period of time, we usually can't smell them. I think that this accounts for the times when I pass someone on the street and their perfume just about knocks me over from three feet away. They can't smell their own perfume anymore. So they put on more perfume.

An old friend who was a grade-school science teacher was fond of telling her students: "If you can smell it, it's in your nose."

She would usually tie this saying to something like the smell of dog-poo, just to evoke the "Ewww! Gross!" response from her students, but her point was that the mechanism of smelling was a chemical process whereby chemicals from the object we smelled actually entered the incredibly permeable surfaces of our noses -- that it had to go into us in order to be registered as an odor.

That entry into our body doesn't stop at our noses, though -- it continues into our mouths, and our lungs -- all organs that are fabulously designed to absorb and assimilate chemicals from the outside world.

So, when you're wearing perfume or smelling your Bounced clothing, you're actually ingesting it, too -- and so is everyone else in the room. Fragrance is designed to invade other people's space -- manufacturers actually put chemicals in it to help it disseminate further and faster, and to last longer.

3. We are permeable beings. It's not just what we breath in through our mouths and noses that gets into our bodies -- our skin and eyes are permeable for a reason.

Years ago, when I was sealing a very small, high-ceilinged closet with a shellac-based (alcohol) product, I wore my very expensive respirator the entire time I was working. I had to close the closet door to access all the surfaces, and the high ceiling concentrated the fumes intensely.

I had done what I needed to protect myself -- or so I thought -- but at the end of the day, I could detect the distinct flavor/smell of ketones on my breath -- you're probably familiar with it, even if you don't know the word --it's that particular smell on the breath of someone who has had way to much to drink.

I asked my MD about it, and he pointed out that we very efficiently absorb chemicals through our skin, but most especially through our eyes. Our entire body is "breathing".

So, chemicals that we douse our clothing in (and then wear next to our skins) will get into us, even if we can't smell them.

Now, some facts:

A) Fragrance: You don't know what's in there.

Anytime you see the word "fragrance" on a product, it contains an unknown amount and combination of chemicals that are not required to be individually listed as ingredients.

These combinations of chemicals are considered a "trade secret" for fragrance manufacturers. The FDA has only banned about 10 chemicals from use in perfumes and cosmetics. Legally, any other chemical can be used in a fragrance, and those chemicals do not have to be revealed to the consumer in the ingredient list -- the word "Fragrance" is enough, even though that may be dozens, or hundreds, of chemicals.

The fragrance industry is essentially, self-regulating. (And looking at the current state of the world economy, we all know how well that self-regulation thing works.)

B) Fragrance: What's in there might not be very good for you.

"The fragrance industry does come under the regulation of the FDA, but the regulation is extremely limited. Many of the ingredients used in fragrances have little to no safety testing done on them. Most of the safety testing that has been done has revolved around the dermatological effects of fragrance chemicals. The effects on the respiratory system, the brain, and other organs of the body have not been determined on individual chemicals - much less in the combinations in which they are used." ~ http://www.ourlittleplace.com/fda.html

"95% of chemicals used in fragrances are synthetic compounds derived from petroleum. They include benzene derivatives, aldehydes and many other known toxics and sensitizers - capable of causing cancer, birth defects, central nervous system disorders and allergic reactions." ~ 'Neurotoxins: At Home and the Workplace', Report by the Committee on Science & Technology, U.S. House of Representatives, Sept. 16, 1986. (Report 99-827)

Oh, in that 1986 Report from Congress, Fragrances were listed among the six categories of chemicals that should be given high priority to be tested for neurotoxicity -- along with insecticides, heavy metals, solvents, food additives and certain air pollutants. (Neurotoxins are chemicals that damage or destroy nerve tissues.)

So, you don't really get to know what's in your nose, and they don't have to tell you.

The only way you would be able to find out is to take it to a chemist and have it analyzed -- and honestly -- if what was in there was actually good for you, don't you think the manufacturers would be touting that as a selling point? -- "Between Love and a Stronger Immune System Lies . . . . . Obsession."

C) Fragrance: It's Not Just Your Cologne

Perfume and cologne, scented lotions, and soaps and shampoos that you apply to your body is only one of the problems with synthetic fragrance.

Dryer sheets, fabric softener, and detergents can contain fragrance -- even if they're marked "unscented" or even "fragrance-free" -- because if a fragrance is used as a "masker" (something to mask the smell of another chemical, but not intended to impart a "scent") -- it doesn't even have to be listed using that one word: Fragrance.

You can be, literally, "cleaning" your clothes in a chemical bath that isn't "clean" at all.

"Trouble is, you have no way of knowing it. Manufacturers of detergents, laundry sheets and air fresheners aren't required to list all of their ingredients on their labels -- or anywhere else. Laws protecting people from indoor air pollution from consumer products are limited.

When UW engineering professor Anne Steinemann analyzed of some of these popular items, she found 100 different volatile organic compounds measuring 300 parts per billion or more -- some of which can be cancerous or cause harm to respiratory, reproductive, neurological and other organ systems.

Some of the chemicals are categorized as hazardous or toxic by federal regulatory agencies. But the labels tell a different story, naming only innocuous-sounding "perfume" or "biodegradable" contents. ~http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/371779_toxicfragrance23.html

D) Fragrance: Your Favorite Fragrance Has Gone Global

It isn't just going onto, and into, you.

It's going down the drain to the water table, and into the sea, so fish are swimming in it and breathing it, and you get to drink it later, and eat it at Chez Fins.

It's blowing out of your dryer vent, so insects and birds are flying through and breathing it.

It's being dumped into landfills. (The EPA cites discarded or waste consumer cosmetics as one of the leading contributors to PCPPs in the environment.)

So fragrance is a gift that will keep on giving (toxins) for generations to come, and to other species who really don't care whether you smell like a Spring Day (but who might care that they get to live to see another Spring day).

Of course, fragrance isn't the only culprit in MCS (many people are triggered by things like new plastic products that are off-gassing -- carpeting, etc.), and the toxicity of our buildings has increased as more and more synthetics are used.

But even if we're just talking about fragrances, and we really do have a "toxin bucket" that can "get full", and once we get full, we get sick, then what does it mean that we are bathing in, slathering our skins with, inhaling, and washing our clothes in stuff that we have a hunch might not be so good for us?

". . . . . .health effects from exposures are often difficult to detect. While some effects are immediate and noticeable, others are gradual, subtle, and sub-clinical. Of particular concern are chronic and often low-level exposures to mixtures of chemicals, which are the type of exposures that typify daily life.

Human exposure studies, over the past two decades, have revealed widespread U.S. population exposure to VOCs (Wallace et al., 1991b;Wallace, 2001). Paradoxically, the largest contributors of VOCs to human exposure (nearly 90%) are not the sources traditionally recognized and regulated, but rather sources that are small, close to us, largely unregulated, yet often within our control (Wallace, 2001; Wallace et al., 1987), such as consumer products and other indoor sources. In particular, fragrance compounds, used in a wide variety of consumer products, can be primary sources of human exposure to VOCs (EPA, 1989; Sack et al., 1992; Wallace et al., 1991a; Cooper et al., 1992, 1995)."

Source: Steinemann AC, Fragranced consumer products and undisclosed ingredients, Environ Impact Asses Rev (2008), doi:10.1016/j.eiar.2008.05.002

Two recent situations I've been in that I find ironic:

I live in a state where you cannot smoke, even outside, within 25 feet of any doorway, air vent, window, or opening to a public space (even privately owned businesses), yet my Beloved cannot risk going to the City Building to pay the water bill without wearing a filter-mask, because the clerk might be wearing perfume, or have a Downy addiction.

My Beloved went to the public library to pick up the book she had put on hold (How everyday products make people sick : toxins at home and in the workplace / Paul D. Blanc), but she couldn't bring it home and read it because it reeked of perfume.

So, there is my story, and some facts.

Now, here's what you can do:

What You Can Do For Yourself and Your Family:

• Get that stuff out of your home, off your skin, and out of your clothes (and off of your loved ones' skin and clothes.)
• There is a great round-up here about becoming fragrance-free.
  
• Check the labels on your body and hair-care products -- but first, get educated about tricky words like "unscented", "natural", and "perfume free". If it says "fragrance", it has chemicals in it that you have no idea about. Even some "fragrance free" products can be dicey, because of the masking chemicals, which do not have to be listed as fragrance. Most products sold at Natural Food stores that are listed as Fragrance Free are reliable -- but I prefer items that have an entire list of ingredients, and say so. You may be able to find out more about your existing products at Skin Deep, which has a database of safe and unsafe cosmetics. (You can also research individual ingredients there, because even fragrance-free products can contain other chemicals you don't want on you or in you.)
  
• Start using products that are environmentally safe and safe for you. Here's a great start: http://www.peggymunson.com/mcs/products.html
• Get educated -- all of the links in this post lead to real information, much of it peer-reviewed scientific study and official reports, the rest from people who deal with MCS.
  

Here's what's currently in use at my house:

• Seventh Generation Free & Clear Laundry and Household cleaning products
• Bon-Ami
• Citra-Solv
• White Vinegar (cleans windows, surfaces, and absorbs fragrances in rooms)
  
• Baking Soda (mix it with vinegar to clear drains, absorbs smells -- you can even wash your hair with it -- and yes, it does work -- my Beloved has been using it, and her hair looks, and feels, great.)
  
• Shampoos and Hair Care Products vary, but I like Aubrey Organics (also, there are very inexpensive and effective ways to go fragrance-free that don't involve buying expensive fragrance-free products -- check the links above).
• We usually purchase locally-handmade soaps, but we always have Dr. Bronner's on hand (sometimes, literally on hand).

What You Can Do For Your Chemically Sensitive Friends:

• Get educated. There's a wealth of information out there. You might want to start with Peggy Munson, and MCS.org.
• Ask them what their sensitivities are. Take them seriously. This is real. It's not in their heads, and if you choose to use fragrance and then hang around them, they can end up feeling lousy for hours, days, weeks, or months.
  
• Don't be offended if they're hesitant to hug you, or invite you to their house, or when they say that they can't accompany you to a certain restaurant or concert or bar. It isn't you -- it's your chemicals.
  
• Remember that when you choose to wear fragrance around your friend, even if you know it will trigger reactions in them, it's kind of like blowing cigarette smoke in the face of someone with emphysema -- your choice is trumping their health.
• Remember that some people are triggered by off-gassing from new plastic items, so consider this when choosing gifts and packaging.
• Speak up for them when other people scoff at their needs. Help people get educated.
  

Giving up fragranced products has been difficult for some people I know.

There seems to be a tendency to think that the person with the MCS is the one with the problem, rather than a willingness to look at the fact that maybe the level of toxicity we live in and around is the problem.

Last week, a student came to class wearing perfume. She is a nutritionist, and when my Beloved had a conversation with her about fragrance, the student cheerfully informed Beloved that she had been helping people with MCS improve through dietary changes -- maybe she could help Beloved, too! My Beloved thanked her, told her that she is working with *therapies that were helping her, and then said:

"You know, even if I'm not having reactions to the chemicals, I still don't want to live around that stuff." The young woman looked honestly baffled at this.

But you see -- I don't actually think of MCS as a "disease" (the "canary in the coal mine" comes to mind) -- instead, I think that, as we increasingly surround ourselves with more and more and more low-level toxins, all of us may be"getting our buckets filled" -- and that those whose MCS reactions are more extreme may be our early-warning signal, giving us a glimpse of what's to come if we don't clean up our act.

============
*I've asked my Beloved to write a post at her own blog about the things that she's doing that are helping her deal with her reactions to chemicals. It's not ready yet, but when it is, I'll update this post with a link.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 9:20 PM 22 comments  

Labels: Environmental, MCS, True Stories

Tiny Little Things I Heard Today
Friday, May 2, 2008

There is a couple who often attend my Friday night class/gathering. They usually bring with them their two children, the oldest of whom seems quite shy amongst strangers. She's at that age (not quite 5) when it's hard for me to tell when that's an act that she's cultivated to maintain a certain distance, and when it's genuine.

Apparently, at home she is quite chatty, but it's rare that she speaks before, in, or after the gathering (she usually whispers into her father's ear if she wants him to say something on her behalf).

At any rate, this child has attended the Friday gathering many, many times (since she was around 2), and even requested to be brought to the Tuesday gathering that I teach (which is a focused spiritual development class heretofore populated only by adults). She will peep out at me from under her "fairy cloak" and give me a mischievous grin from time to time, and genuinely seems to enjoy being there (although she often falls asleep during the gathering), but it's very rare that she will speak aloud to me.

Tonight, as folks were drifting away from our meeting place, I heard her insisting that her Dada push her in the swing outside our house (it's an "adult-size" swing-set, and if Da pushes her, she can swing very high -- so I've overheard her giggles and squeals many times).

It was then that I heard it -- for the first time in the several years that I have known her: My name, spoken in her own voice -- as I walked from the gathering place to my house -- I heard: "Dada! Show ***** how high I can swing!"

It was a very sweet moment for me.

She rounded off all the consonants in my name in that way that children do before they learn to read and write -- pronounced it as, no doubt, it sounds to her when others speak it.

This is a little tiny thing I heard today.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 11:55 PM 1 comments  

Labels: Overheard, True Stories

Take My Arm, My Love
Monday, April 28, 2008

When ABC news did their second social experiment about Public Displays of Affection (PDAs) by having a gay male and a lesbian couple kiss and cuddle in public (the first experiment used straight couples), the reactions were varied.

There was the woman who called the cops:

Operator: "Birmingham Police operator 9283"

Caller: "We have a couple of men sitting out on the bench that have been kissing and drooling all over each other for the past hour or so. It's not against the law, right?"

Operator: "Not to the best of my knowledge it's not."

Caller: "So there's no complaint I could make or have?"

Operator: "I imagine you could complain if you like ma'am. We can always send an officer down there."

And they did . . . . The officer told our couple that the police dispatch received a call because the two of them were making out.

"Just don't do that in public," he told them before leaving the scene.

There was the woman who said:

"I would actually want our kids to grow up in a place where they would see various types of people engaging in behaviors that [are] loving."

And then there were the people who took a whole different "think of teh childrenz!" tack:

"I don't really find it inappropriate, especially during the day when schoolchildren aren't running around. They might get confused and want an answer for what's going on," bystander Mary-Kate told us. The majority of the people who spoke about children seemed to echo Mary-Kate's feelings."

Which means, basically, these folks are fine with "Gay PDA" -- as long as they don't have to face the uncomfortable, icky business of explaining to their children that not everybody on earth is like mommy and daddy.

Which kind of sucks.

My partner and I rarely engage in kissing in public (even around our friends), but that's a personal choice based on our desire to keep our sexual intimacy extremely . . well . . . intimate. When we kiss, we like to kiss for real, and that's for us. (And yes, it is hot, thank you very much. And no, you may not watch.)

However, I doubt that most straight, cisgendered people think about, or notice, how frequently they touch their partner in public in ways that are not necessarily "sexual" (in addition to kissing, cuddling, and the odd bum-squeeze) -- ie. holding hands, walking with an arm around the waist, smoothing the other's hair back out of their eyes -- nor do I think that most straight, cisgendered people are probably aware of the fact that when I touch my partner in public, it's nearly always a considered act.

I don't obsess about this -- as in -- it doesn't eat up my days and nights -- and I'm probably about as "out" as a queer can be in this country -- but every single time I take my partner's hand on the street, or toss my arm over her shoulder or around her waist, hug her goodbye or hello, I do a little, tiny "security sweep".

I notice who is around, and where I am, and what the energy feels like -- before I touch her in public. It's a tiny amount of attention, most often, but it's there.

I just noticed recently that in an unknown situation that seems "sort of" safe, (like walking in a crowded mall) I'm more likely to curl her arm through mine than to hold her hand -- which may seem counter-intuitive, since arm-in-arm actually affords much closer body contact -- but after I thought about this, I realized that walking "arm-in-arm" is something that I see straight girl-friends do more often than holding hands (after they're 12, anyway). In considering this choice, I also realized that in many situations, I'm happy to give any possible bigots in an uncertain setting the option of assuming that we're just a couple of straight girls.

Which sorta sucks.

I recognize this as the internalized homophobia that it is, but I can't deny that it's present in me. The fact is, that I stop, look, and listen before I demonstrate physical affection toward my beloved in nearly every public setting that is not clearly "queer safe".

I'm butch, and I seem butch (even to people who will tell you that their gaydar is hopelessly mis-calibrated). I seem butch no matter what I'm wearing, or what length my hair is. It's fairly difficult for me to "pass" -- even when I want to. My gait is stompy, and my demeanor, direct. I've always been that way -- from little on. My favorite colors in clothing are black and blue (Couture D'Bruise, as I like to call it) -- partially because my color sense sucks ass, but mostly because I have better things to do than figuring out what to wear.

My partner is androgynous-to-femme. She often wears dresses because she genuinely likes wearing them, and usually sports smashing combinations of floral tones or deep purples with highlights of teal.

And we adore each other.

If you caught us in an unguarded moment, this adoration would probably be very visible to you, whether we were snogging away like sex-crazed maniacs or sitting across the room from one another reading our respective books -- so moving out into the world also involves, for me, some adjustments beyond whether I touch her physically or not.

I notice that, in public, I seem to have an automatic timer that warns me not to gaze at her as long as I might at the privacy of our dining room table, a subtle mask that shifts the set of my smile when I respond to hearing her laugh, and an inner language editor that reflexively erases "honey", "my love" and "darling" from my lexicon as I'm calling to her across a parking lot.

I want to make it very clear that I don't think about these things.

These adjustments have become so internalized that I rarely, if ever, notice them -- until I sit down to write a post like this.

They are part of the enculturated self- censoring that most queers learn in order to assure their own safety in the world (and sometimes, their very survival). In fact, I had to "unlearn" many other, more rigid, tendencies to automatic hiding when I finally made the decision to be completely "out" as a lesbian.

I don't edit myself this way because I am ashamed of being a lesbian. I do it because I'm afraid that someone else, who thinks I ought to be ashamed of being a lesbian, might hurt me -- or worse, hurt my beloved.

Back in 1988, when I came out completely and publicly via a two-part article in the Oregonian, the nutcase Lon Mabon was mounting the first of many campaigns to curtail LGBTQ rights in the state of Oregon, in the guise of "Measure 8".

My oldest and best friend (a straight, married girl) poo-pooed the whole thing, saying "we've come farther than that, the Measure will never pass, tempest-in-a-teapot, blah, blah, blah" -- and stated that she couldn't understand why I was so upset about the whole thing.

This friend is the sister I never had. I loved her (and love her still) dearly, and her inability to see how the Measure 8 (which was passed that year) was likely to affect me and my family was incredibly painful to me. I remember weeping in her living room as I tried to explain something that was, to her, completely invisible. I talked to her about how scary it had been to come out publicly after having led a fairly comfortable life as a closeted queer, and she just didn't seem to get why it should be a big deal at all.

So, I issued her and her husband a challenge (and I'll issue the same challenge to any straight coupled allies here who want to raise their awareness of LBGTQ issues):

Spend an entire week pretending that you're not a couple. Don't write a check from a joint bank account. Hide all the photographs in your home and office which would identify you as a couple. Take off your wedding rings. Touch each other, and talk to each other, in public, in ways that could only be interpreted as you being "friends". Refer to yourself only in the singular "I", never in the "we". When you go to work on Monday, if you spent time together on the weekend, include only information which would indicate that you went somewhere with a friend, rather than your life-mate. If someone comes to stay with you, sleep in separate beds. Go intentionally into the closet as a couple. For a week.

They took my challenge.

They lasted exactly three days.

My friend returned to me in tears on day four and said: "I'm sorry. I had no idea what it is like for you."

[For those of you straight allies who are not coupled, but who want to play along, your challenge is (perhaps) simpler: Spend one week in which you make no mention and give no hint of your sexual orientation at all. When straight people around you are parsing the hotness of the opposite gender, go silent, or play along in a way that makes it seem as if you are part of the gang, but never reveals any real personal information. If someone asks you about your love-life, be evasive and non-committal. If you went on a date, and you're talking about it later, de-genderize all the pronouns, or consciously switch them (him to her, her to him, etc.).]

That is how I lived for the first 32 years of my life, whether I was single or coupled.

And while my current self-editing is not nearly as extreme as it was before I made the choice to live as an out lesbian, it's still self-editing.

I am still alert in public settings and default-cautious with strangers around revelation of my sexual orientation, no matter how much self-esteem I posssess. Every time I meet someone new, I silently (and mostly, unconsciously) assess how I think they will handle the information that I am a lesbian.

That's one reason that I like my handle (PortlyDyke) -- because people's immediate response to it (friendly or foe-full) usually gives me some information in that initial assessment process, and saves me the trouble of "coming out" to them. I also let potential clients know, via my business website, that I am a lesbian -- right out front -- and figure that if they still hire me, well, they knew what they were getting.

It's one of the reasons that I've chosen to live in a small town that is known for its liberality and quirkiness -- where it is unlikely that I'm going to get hassled on the street for looking butchy, and where, if I was hassled, there would probably be some people around who would help me out (I hope) -- but also one of the reasons that I would not consider setting foot in the road-house near the paper mill unless I were accompanied by two or more straight friends.

In truth, these assessments and considerations are so much a part of my existence that I barely notice them, and the availability of the choice to either remain closeted or come out (a choice which is available for many, but not all queers) is one of the things that can make homo-/trans- phobia a very tricky sort of "-ism" to deal with.

[A thought which arises at this point: I imagine that these types of behavioral adjustments and choices are also made by people of color who can "pass" and mixed-race couples.]

The queer couples smooching for ABC had a camera crew and back up. The city officials and police departments had signed off on the experiment. I'd really love to hear an interview with those couples about whether the public affection they displayed is typical of how they would act on any street, at any time, or if they noticed subtle or overt changes in how they interacted because they had "permission" to be fully de-cloaked as queers.

In examining all this, I realized that, for me, choosing the closet, even in this incredibly subtle way -- by taking my beloved's arm instead of her hand on the street -- is simultaneously a direct participation in the heterosexist system that would deny me equality, and a prudent move to preserve my safety.

Which definitely sucks.

Take my hand, my love.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 2:27 PM 15 comments  

Labels: Homophobia, Queers, True Stories

20 Years
Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Today is the 20th anniversary of my being self-employed.

Twenty years ago today, I drove to my last pay-check job, had a head-on collision which totaled my lover's station wagon (but from which I walked away unscathed), and that was just the start of the day that ended my previous 15 years of wage-slavery.

I took my first "real" job when I was 17 (I'm not counting baby-sitting and other odd-job work that I did as a kid). In 1973 I was a Camp Counselor. Between then and April 1, 1988, I was paid money to hold the following positions:

• Camp Counselor
  
• Education Theater Company Performer
• Meat Packing Plant Weinie Packer (no shit)
• Meat Packing Plant Bone-Room Knifer (again, no shit)
• Dolly Madison Factory Worker
  
• Professional Actress/Singer/Dancer
• Catering Company Server
• Gas Station Attendant
• Bank Over-draft Manager
• Waittress
• Punk Rock Musician
  
• Institutional Cook
• Program Manager for HUD Pilot Program

The past 20 years have held even more job descriptions, and a lot of ups and downs for me, but I must admit that there have been far more ups than downs. One of the main reasons that I opted for self-employment originally was that I wanted to have more time for myself and more time with my family. I think it's safe to say at this point that I would never, ever, go back to work for someone else. For one thing, I think they would find me an insufferable know-it-all that doesn't take direction well -- for another thing, I'd hate it.

I haven't blogged since the turn of the Equinox.

I've been busy being . . . . well . . . self-employed.

That's part of it, anyway.

The other part of it is that I've been taking a good long look at my involvement on the internet, and how it has affected my outlook on life.

I love the part where I feel connected through this incredible medium -- the part where I have a sense that the conversation I'm having with thousands of other human beings might be helping us move forward as a species -- but recently, I've had the sense that I was just having the SAME conversation, over and over, and maybe none of us were really expanding in the process. So I took a step back -- not really consciously at first . . . but one day turned into two, then two into three, and then a week had passed, and now, nearly two weeks have passed.

In truth, I'm tired of the bitching and moaning about politics which are 90% dog-and-pony-show anyway, tired of reacting to a media that doesn't deserve my attention anyway -- and, turning my attention away from these recently, I've noticed that I haven't been certain that those who read my blog would be interested in the other stuff I might have to say -- because what I've been putting my attention on lately has been profoundly based in "real" world interactions, understandings, and spiritual question and answer periods with myself.

I thought about re-appearing today with some story about how it had all been an elaborate April Fool's joke to make you think I'd fallen off the edge of the earth (or been Raptured) -- but that would have been . . . . you know . . . a big fat lie (and you probably know how I feel about lying).

I've been remembering back a while ago when Waveflux disappeared at Shakesville for a time, and reappeared with a post about needing to just take a break, take a walk, get back to things real and visceral -- and I remember thinking: "Hmm. That's probably going to be me one day."

The computer breakdown helped, I suppose. A few days high and dry without my beloved computer, and I realized that I would not, in fact, die, if I didn't read every single blog in the Universe, much less comment on them.

Then, about the time I got to posting again, there was the pile-up of work that had accumulated while the computer was down, and an Equinox celebration to have, and then . . . . well, then there was the soul-searching.

I'm back, though. Again. And to Phydeaux, I'll say -- apparently I'm not shame-proof yet.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 10:54 PM 5 comments  

Labels: True Stories, Very Personal Details

The Bedlam Yarns #1: Glen Miller in the Air Vent
Friday, January 18, 2008

OR: The Magical World of Anti-depressants

(Note to mental-illness survivors who commented on my last post and said that they wanted me to write the Bedlam Yarns, but didn't know if they could read them -- of all my Bedlam Yarns, I think this one is not likely to be terribly triggering, but YMMV.)

When you're hospitalized as a crazy person, doctors have you captive, so they can prescribe drugs in ways that they would never dare if they didn't have you under constant observation (or so they told me).

Normally, when you go on anti-depressant or anti-psychotic medications, they bring you on slowly, steadily increasing your dosages. When I was in the hospital, they put me on a high dose of anti-depressant medication on my third day in. They told me this was not how they would do it if I were in the wild (not their term, but mine), and that I should report anything unusual to my psychiatrist or the nurses on duty.

Mind you, when I checked into the hospital, I was not psychotic -- just severely and suicidally depressed.

I took the pills, went to my session with my psychiatrist, and joined the other inmates for meals in the common room. The rest of the time, though, I spent in my room, journaling, drawing, staring out the window at the concrete lightwell and the grey Northwest winter.

Very cheery indeed.

About 24 hours after I began taking the medication, I noticed something strange.

This hospital was shiny-bright and perfectly temperature-regulated -- a balmy 70 degrees all day and all night, thanks to the air-vents that blew continually in every room, circulating and purifying the shared air of hundreds of "sick" people.

The vent above my bed shushed out white-noise that was at first comforting, and then, annoying.

It became especially annoying when I noticed the faintest whisper of Glen Miller big band music emanating from it.

It was slight -- so slight that at first I wasn't sure I was really hearing it -- but as the day passed, it persisted -- the tiniest suggestion of rhythmic horns and bass just below the surface of the steady "whoosh" of air.

It became a bit maddening as I strained to hear it more clearly -- I even stood on my bed to get my ear closer to the vent.

I will swear to this day that it was there --though it remained elusive and subtle, the tunes actually changed. I longed to be able to switch the air-flow off so that I could listen without the interference of the ambient noise of the blower.

An orderly came into my room that evening. He was a very sweet guy who was obviously attempting to make a real connection to the people he was working with.

He must have seen me looking perplexed, because he asked me "Is anything wrong?"

I beckoned and said: "Come here."

He came over by my bed and stood patiently, waiting for me to let him know what I needed.

"Do you hear that?" I asked.

This is the part of the story that I think is so great. This guy cocked his head like the RCA dog and really, earnestly, listened.

"The air vent?" he asked.

"Do you hear anything else coming from the air vent -- like very faint music?"

He cocked his head again and gave it his all.

"No," he finally said, shaking his head and looking sympathetic -- "I'm really sorry [Portly], I don't hear any music."

It was a very weird, and very sweet, moment. I think he was genuinely sorry that he couldn't confirm my experience.

I had only been there a couple of days -- this guy probably had no idea what, if anything, my "diagnosis" was. At the time, I wondered if maybe I was sicker than I had thought I was -- like maybe I'd been hearing music all along without knowing it.

"It's big band music," I said," like Glen Miller . . . . . Look -- I didn't come in here because I was hallucinating -- I'm just depressed. Do you think it's the medication?"

"It could be," he said, "You should talk to your doctor tomorrow."

"Okay," I said, as he turned to go. Once again I caught the faintest riff of trumpets tooting away at a swing piece.

"You really don't hear that?" I asked again, incredulous.

He stopped, closed his eyes for a moment, brought his concentration to listening and said, with another slight shake of his head and a half-smile: "No. I don't. I'm sorry. I really don't."

"Oh . . . . Okay."

So, the next day, I attended my first "Coping With Stress" class.

This class was held in a 10 by 12 foot room, which held 14 crazy people, two orderlies, and "Rudy", the presenter.

Rudy had clearly trained for this gig. He pitched his very resonate voice as if he were giving this lecture in a 400 seat auditorium, instead of a 200 sq ft room (which was rather a lot of stimulus for people who were on drugs which have a tendency to make your ears roar anyway).

Maybe the whole idea was to subject you to some stress, so that you had some to cope with -- just in case being in a mental ward wasn't stressful enough for you.

As Rudy droned on, I experienced myself looking from one side of my brain to the other. (I can't tell you exactly how this happened, but it was very clear to me at the time.)

On the left side of my brain from which I was observing, I was processing Rudy's spiel, but as I turned to look in on the right side of my brain, I watched as I saw myself, quite calmly and surgically, slicing the top of Rudy's cranium off with a scalpel, and gently lifting his brain out to have a long scientific look at what made this man tick.

"Wow," I thought (from the left side of my brain), "That was weird."

I reported this, and Glen Miller's invasion of the air-conditioning system, to my shrink during the session later that afternoon.

"Hmmm . . . . . " said the Shrink, "Well, [Portly], you're experiencing episodes of what we call 'bizarre thinking'."
(Gee, ya think?)
"We'll be reducing your medication."

Which they did. I didn't have any more bifurcated brain observations. That kind of stuff stopped immediately.

What is weird is that the Glen Miller music never disappeared, or even changed.

Which left me wondering whether the whole air-vent thing was some kind of mental ward reality-check test (you know -- maybe they really were piping Glen Miller music through the air-co -- if you noticed it, they would know you were on the ball, and if you didn't, then they'd know you were truly crackers) -- or maybe I had developed some super-human hearing capability, or my orderly was partially deaf, or I was picking up some big-band station through my fillings that only transmitted right there in the vortex of that particular hospital light well, or someone was fucking with my head -- or maybe . . . I was just crazy.

What was also weird, to me, was the knowledge that they had loaded me up with drugs that basically made me more crazy than when I got there, and that this didn't seem to bother the professionals who were working with me . . . . at all.

I wondered, then, and now, how many "crazy" people were wandering around looking and acting really wacko because of drugs they were taking to keep them from looking or acting wacko.

Do you think that's weird, or am I just crazy?

Posted byPortlyDyke at 11:54 PM 8 comments  

Labels: Divine Madness, Mental Health, True Stories, Very Personal Details

Portly and the Loony Bin
Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Or "Why I Don't Want Anyone To Force Me to Buy Health Insurance."

Most of the Healthcare "reform" that's being touted by political candidates these days involves some sort of mandate that requires individuals who are not covered by their employers to buy health insurance from a private health insurer. Some of these plans include proposals for penalizing those who refuse by garnishing their wages or damaging their credit.

The following explains why I will be one of those who will face the penalty, rather than comply, if such a plan is put into law.

On April 1st of this year, I will celebrate 20 years of self-employment. Prior to 4/1/88, I had "regular jobs" with benefits and health-coverage (albeit shitty, Kaiser coverage) for my entire working life. After I became self-employed, I did the "responsible" thing and purchased private health insurance (thus foregoing any hope of long, lingering vacations in warm, sunny places, plus an arm and a leg).

I was an insurance company's cash-cow wet-dream -- the only claims I have ever made on my car insurance policy in a 36-year driving history were as a result of being hit by other drivers (which the insurance company recouped from the at-fault driver), I never made a single claim on my home insurance, and I'm generally healthy as a horse.

Except for this one thing that happened 15 years ago, which I've talked about before.

Hence the title of this post.

I'm not going to go into huge detail about my loony bin experiences in this post (hmmmm -- although I may start another series of posts -- "The Bedlam Yarns" -- what do you think?)

Suffice it to say that my first 8 day hospitalization for clinical, suicidal depression (the first time I had been hospitalized since I was born) -- cost $14,000.00.

At this time, $14,000.00 was well over half my annual income.

I didn't worry about that at the time, though -- because I had insurance, you see. Insurance that I paid upwards of $3000/year for. Insurance that was supposed to cover me if something bad happened -- like having a nervous breakdown.

Or so I thought.

Turns out that my insurance plan had a limit on any treatment for mental illness.

That limit? $1000/year.

Oh. Guess I missed that in the fine print (and it was very fine), on page 38 or so of the very lengthy policy.

Bummer.

So now, I was not only a wreck mentally -- I was also facing a $13G hospital bill. At a time when I was, shall we say -- not exactly "suited for work"? Not precisely a candidate for financial mover and shaker of the year?

It was at this point that I began to realize: Health Insurance is not about health coverage. It's about money. It's a gamble between you and a huge corporation.

They're betting that you don't get sick, and you're betting that you do.

Which is all kinds of fucked up, because the only way you "win" the bet is to do something that you probably don't want to do -- get sick.

(Life Insurance is an even weirder bet, since you're essentially betting that you'll die young -- and they're betting that you'll live to a ripe old age -- after they've sucked the bucks from you.)

During the five years I had been paying my insurance premiums before I got sick, I went to the doctor once a year for an annual check-up (which wasn't covered), and purchased a prescription drug called "Naproxen" (now known as "Alleve) for menstrual cramps (which also wasn't covered). That was it -- the entire extent of my need for medical care.

In fact, I had been taking Naproxen for cramps (as prescribed by my physician) before I purchased private health insurance, so the insurance company "rated" me on anything that involved my reproductive organs for the first 3 years of my coverage (which meant that they would not have covered any illness related in any way to my ovaries or uterus had I had a problem in those 3 years).

When I first applied for private insurance, I argued with the person who "rated" me for reproductive issues because I had taken a prescription medication.

I said: "Yes, I take it for cramps. Nearly every woman I know takes pain-medication for cramps."

She replied: "Not everyone takes prescription medication for cramps." (Note: Naproxen was de-regulated and went over-the-counter as "Alleve" about a year later, but I was still shit out of luck on my lady-bits. See how that works?)

But back to my story. I was mentally ill, suicidally depressed, owed $13,000 that I didn't have, and was unable to work. I was ineligible for any type of public assistance until I had been unemployed for four months or longer, and even after that, a social worker told me that applying for and getting medicaid assistance generally took one to three years -- if I qualified -- which meant that I would have to prove a long-term disability -- which meant that I couldn't get better if I wanted any help. The social worker told me, to my face: "You're going to have to look very sick to qualify."

During that first year, I was hospitalized again -- this time through an involuntary commitment process, as I was deeply depressed and ragingly suicidal at the time -- cuz life was looking so rosy, dontcha know.

The second hospitalization cost around $8000, which the hospital billed to me, even though I had been involuntarily committed. (They also booted me out much more quickly, because they had figured out that my insurance company wasn't going to pay up.)

I was able to work only very marginally for the next three years. I survived, during this time, through receiving generous help and support from loved ones (my ex, with whom I had purchased a house, cashed me out on what little equity I had), scaling back my life to nearly nothing (I lived in a used RV on community land where I paid $180/month for rent, and was able to raise a lot of my own food), and living on credit (which didn't last long).

Two years after my breakdown, I ended up declaring bankruptcy. Ironically, even though I had now learned the hard way that the insurance company was not my friend, I continued to pay my health-care premiums for four more years after the bankruptcy (like I said, I used to be crazy).

When they hiked the premiums to a level which I absolutely could not pay, I dropped my coverage. Since I was no longer grandfathered into a plan, and now had a history of mental illness, I became "un-insurable". To this day, I remain pretty much un-insurable -- at least in terms of insurance I could remotely afford (even though all this occurred 15 years ago).

I don't have health insurance now -- and I don't want it. For one thing, even if I had it, it wouldn't cover the type of health care that I focus on today (I see a naturopathic MD when I need a doctor, and focus on cultivating my wellness and health rather than "fighting" disease). I focus on preventative care, diet, and activities that tend to keep me away from the doctor's office.

I want to make very clear that I'm not "anti" traditional western medicine. There are some things that TWM does very well -- if I'm having a heart attack, or I cut my arm off -- for sure, take me to a well-equipped, traditional western hospital.

I'm just not convinced of the following: That the majority of western medical institutions, pressured as they are by the need to "show profit", inextricably intertwined as they are with private, for-profit insurance companies and Big Pharma interests who are more responsive to their stock-holders than to the people they are supposedly "helping" -- I'm not convinced that these institutions really have their eye on the ball concerning "health".

That's why I'm incredibly disturbed that the politicians of today, with rare exceptions (like Kucinich) seem to be focusing their health care initiatives on expanding a system (privatized insurance) that is already not working. ("Something broken? Let's do MORE of it! Yipee!!")

The only way a mandatory, privatized health plan would work for the customers/consumers would be if health insurance was incredibly regulated, and companies were forced to cover their customer's medical needs -- and if you're going to do that, why not rebuild the fucking system from the ground up?

The reason that they want everyone enrolled is that it broadens the "risk pool". That makes sense -- but in fact, it's just a form of socialized medicine, which is one of those "third rail" words that you will never hear falling out of a candidate's mouth. I'd be happy to pay into a system that honors my health choices, and let my "healthy-as-a-horse" condition subsidize someone who isn't as fortunate in their genetics or circumstances -- but not if my subsidy is doing more to line the pockets of some board-room fat-cat than to get a low-income kid an annual check-up, or a new kidney, or to help some working stiff get his back repaired after years of lifting garbage cans.

What I learned through the loony-bin insurance fiasco was this: The insurance company is not my "friend". It isn't there to "help" me. I haven't forgotten the lesson of that harsh thump against the Reality Wall -- that all those years I paid my premiums, we were just engaged in a particularly vicious little card game.

I won my bet. I got sick. Lucky me. But then, the company wriggled and squirmed and fine-printed its way out of its commitment to me.

Stupid me.
"Caveat emptor."
Let the buyer beware.

And that is why, in matters of health care, the game must not be one of sellers and buyers, but of providers and patients. Providers who are well remunerated for the invaluable service they bring (and I'm not just talking about Doctors, here), and patients whose health is the paramount focus of the entire system.

In my state alone, the biggest three health insurers nearly doubled their profit from 2003 ($243 million) to 2006 ($431 million), while the number of people that they actually covered dropped by 16.9% in approximately the same period (2002:2.37 million covered, 2006: 1.97 million covered).

Yeah. Let's take that as a national model. Yipee.

You can probably tell how moderate and calm I am about this topic -- and it is in that tone that I hope you'll receive my last sentence:

If the fucking government wants to fucking force me to buy fucking private health insurance, then they had better fucking BY GOD guarantee me that the fucking insurance company has to fucking cover my treatment -- every . . . fucking . . . . bit of it.

That is all.

(Please vote in comments if you would like to read any of The Bedlam Yarns -- don't worry, they're not all grim. The mental ward can actually be kind of funny . . . . after 15 years have passed.)

Posted byPortlyDyke at 8:20 PM 14 comments  

Labels: Health Insurance, Mental Health, Politics, True Stories, Very Personal Details

The Portly Stand-Up
Tuesday, January 8, 2008

This is another in a continuing series of Portly Parables.

It's true -- I was once a stand-up comedienne.

I'm even in a book about women stand-ups (find me if you can!).

I was Teh Funny.

Stand-up is a very weird gig. You go out on a stage, alone, for the singular purpose of making a bunch of people that you usually don't know -- laugh -- either at you, or with you.

In my experience (and with Joni's eminently sage musical validation) -- laughter is a form of release that is next-door-neighbor/cousin/twin/soul-mate to crying.

My humor was mostly socio-political. I liked the way that humor let me get close to the bone with people -- by making a joke about something like lesbian serial-monogamy, I actually got "humorless" lesbians to chuckle (or at least stir in their chairs a bit).

You see -- I was a not just a stand-up comedienne -- I was an out lesbian stand-up comedienne. My mother pointed out to me at the time that this might not be the most lucrative career choice. I now direct her attention to Ellen and Rosie, and almost wish that I'd stuck with it. Almost. In truth, other things occurred in my life that I would have missed if I were still standing up in that way instead of the way I stand up now.

Here are the things that I liked about doing stand-up:

1. People laughed.
2. I got to talk about very important, and sometimes, sensitive, issues in a way that people actually enjoyed.
3. It required a certain quality of presence and spontaneity that I utterly relished, and new material was always getting created via people who thought they were "heckling" me.

Here are the things that I didn't like about doing stand-up:

1. I attained a marginal level of "famousness", in which people on the street would greet me as if they knew me -- which, in a way, they did, because they had heard me talk about my personal life in very revealing ways -- but I didn't know them at all, and I was often uncertain, when they greeted me in very familiar ways, whether they were someone I actually knew. Awkward.
   
2. I found out that the minute the "powers-that-be" begin to recognize and appreciate your work for its originality, freshness and "edge", they generally want to hire you and then tell you how you "should" be doing your work -- which usually involves removing all hints and traces of originality, freshness, and "edge".
3. Traveling constantly did not really serve the "homebody" that was swiftly emerging in me during my late thirties/early forties.

I will say that none of this experience was wasted. My stint as a stand-up (heyday: 1988-1992, off-and-on dabbling 1992-1998) definitely equipped me with some essential skills that have served me well since I quit "trying" to be funny and just became funny (in both the ha-ha and theweird way). Namely:

• I'm hard to daunt/embarrass.
• I'm good with a crowd.
• I recognize that humor is a very good tool for examining issues that might otherwise be too painful to look at.
  
• I don't take myself too seriously.
• I recognize "hecklers" (aka trolls/asshats) as opportunities for entertainment and education rather than the disastrous, soul-crumbling, humiliating challenges that they would like to think they are.
• I laugh a lot.

And now -- Joni.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 11:54 PM 3 comments  

Labels: Fame, Humor, True Stories, Video

Portly and The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Bank Job
Friday, January 4, 2008

This was the next Portly Parable on the popularity list.

This is a story about quitting.

This is a story that I thought about when Tart quit her job.

This is a story from my distant past. 1978, to be exact.

I want to make it clear that it's not as if nothing interesting has happened to me in recent years -- it's just that it would be very difficult to relate some of my more recent interesting experiences without a whole lot of explanation, and without divulging the identities of people who might not want to be identified. Elapsed time is nice that way.

But on with the story: Portly and the Terrible, Horrible (blah, blah, blah) Bank Job.
********************************************************
I won't go into all the details of how I got to the bank. I'm just going to start at the bank. The big bank. The traditional bank. The bad-ass bank. The edifice-on-the-corner bank. The bank that had a huge clean-room with a computer that took up the whole fucking floor bank.

When I went to work there, I thought I had entered the future, because this was the first place that I ever had a magnetic ID card which allowed me to access certain rooms, but not other rooms, which allowed me to ride certain elevators, but not other elevators. It was teh cool. It was, like, Tron (before Tron existed).

I was originally hired as a check-sorter. All day, I sat in front of what was, essentially, an enormous rolodex (I realize that some of you may be too young to understand what a rolodex is) -- but this was an ultra-cool, hi-tech rolodex, with these numbered pedals like a church-organ which allowed you to rotate the files within it until you came to the file for the account that you had checks for, and my job was to look, look, look at each check to make sure that the signature matched the signature on the card at the top of the file into which I was about to file it. We had those little sticky thumb-cotes, and little jars of sticky-stuff sitting at our sides, so that we could quickly and efficiently make sure that everyone's checks got into the correct file.

Bar-codes did exist in some places, but people were more vigilant about their money in those days, I think. They wanted human hands to process their checks, and human eyes to check the signatures. So in this huge bank with its clean room and magnetic-strip IDs, I was sorting checks by hand. Every day.

Apparently, I did such a good job doing this that I came to the attention of the supervisor, who promoted me to a new position within two months. Now, I was an "over-draft manager".

My job, from 8 am to 5 pm, every day, was to look at line after line of tiny computer print-out (18" x 24" ring-clipped books -- green/white alternating lines of dot-matrix print), figure out how many checks a particular customer had written that were "non-sufficient funds", and calculate how to manipulate the pay-off order of these checks so that the bank could stiff the customer for the maximum number of overdraft charges.

By policy, if a customer was overdrawn on some of the checks (but not all), I was supposed to authorize the largest check for payment that I could, and make sure that a whole bunch of smaller checks would bounce, thus enabling the bank to make many $10 per-check charges for overdrafts. Nice, huh?

I became subversive almost immediately. I would have the stack of checks here and the print-out there, and I would see that this one was their light bill, that one was their phone bill, or their heating bill, and regardless of the "policy", I'd pay those first.

I did have the technical authority to make such decisions, and my boss didn't want to be bothered and never checked -- so I did it. This was back in the day that Ma Bell would yank your phone service the day your payment was late -- and they could -- because they were the only game in town. As Ernestine used to say: "We don't care, we don't have to -- we're the phone company". (And that, dear friends, is why you don't want another global media conglomerate -- but that's another post.)

Of all the places I've ever worked, I think that this was the soul-sucking-est. I was a young lesbian, trying my best to do the straight-acting/appearing routine, and I had been a weirdo from birth, orientation not-withstanding.

I took my lunch in the cafeteria alone for the first couple of months, scribbling feverishly in my journal after I had scarfed down whatever horrible food was available under glaring fluorescents, surrounded by institutional-green walls. A woman who worked in my department asked me one Friday: "Writing another letter? Do you write every day?" I looked up from my journal, and said: "Yes. Yes. I write every day."

I had just written: "Friday: It is the day of freedom. It is hard for me to fathom the fact that today, some 90% of the country is rejoicing that the week of toil is over. Surely the bums must laugh at us in their leisure. Sane people fear the mad because they are afraid they might become dangerous. Mad people fear the sane because they know them to be dangerous."

I did find two compatriots at the bank, eventually -- two black women who, like me, tended to sit apart in the cafeteria, but who, unlike me, had not received rapid promotion in their departments, even though they were both wicked smart, and had each been there for more than five years. Huh. Fancy that.

When I took this job, I took it for the money. Period. End of story.

I knew when I took it that it would be temporary. I knew that I needed to get the fuck out of Kansas. I knew that I needed a bit of cash to make that a reality. So, three months after my promotion, I was ready to quit. I confided this to my new friends, and was wondering how much notice to give. The older of the two said simply: "None. Don't give them any notice. I've seen what happens. You give notice and they will load you up with every one of the crappiest jobs they have for the rest of the time you're here. Listen -- do you need another job with them?"

"No."

"Then don't do it. Just go when you're ready to go. Trust me on this."

So I didn't give notice. I quietly did my job. I plotted. I planned. I waited.

On my last day -- a Friday -- at lunch --I went to the teller window in the main lobby and withdrew my entire account balance -- $1500.00 -- more money than I had ever seen in one place -- in cash -- and stashed it in my purse.

I sweated out the afternoon, certain that my outrageous withdrawal must have flagged an alarm somewhere. But no -- apparently their super-computer was not that smart yet.

At 5 pm, I went into my supervisor's office and handed her my magnetic badge. I told her that I wouldn't be back on Monday. I quit.

She got this face full of concern and said: "Portly, what's the problem?"

"No problem. I'm quitting."

"Let's go talk to Personnel," she said, in a motherly tone.

"Okay."

The personnel manager heard my boss retell my quitting moment, and turned to me with a perky tip of her head. She was all chipper and upbeat and "can-do".

"OK now Portly -- we can talk about this. What's bothering you? Let's get this fixed up."

"Nothing's bothering me," I said, "I'm quitting."

"Oh, come on, you can tell us. I promise we'll listen."

"There's nothing to tell. I'm quitting. I won't be back."

The personnel manager and supervisor exchanged looks. The PM asked my supervisor to step out a moment, and dropped her voice slightly.

"Now Portly, if there's something you don't think you can say in front of [supervisor's first name, which I had not known until that moment -- in Kansas, in those days, you didn't call your boss by their first name -- you called them "Mr." or "Mrs." So-and-So], it's fine. You can tell me."

"No. There's nothing. I'm quitting. That's all."

She then stepped briskly into the hall, talked in hushed tones with the supervisor, then they both came back in. Gone, now, the saccharin sweet faces and conciliatory tones. They both stared at me as if I were insane.

"So, you're telling us that you are quitting."

"Yes. That's what I'm telling you."

*Slightly Outraged Tone*: "You realize that you can never expect a reference from this organization. You realize that, don't you?!"

"Yes. I realize that."

*Sympathetic, Comforting Tone*: "Really, Portly, what's the problem?"

"There is no problem. I'm quitting. I won't be back. Not on Monday. Not ever."

They just stood there, dumbfounded.

It was a moment of supreme satisfaction for me. I watched it sink into their collective consciousness: I didn't need them. I wasn't afraid of what would happen to me if they didn't approve of me. I didn't care that they thought I was nuts.

It was profoundly liberating. So much so that I sat there for an extra moment or two, just to watch them marinate in their own confusion.

Then, I got up and walked out of the building for the last time. A half-block away, my only two friends from the bank hollered from the bus-stop: "Did you do it?" I gave them the thumbs-up and they jumped up and down.

I never saw them again. The next day, I got in my VW Bug, and drove off to Portland, Oregon, where I lived for the next 22 years.

TEH END

Posted byPortlyDyke at 11:55 PM 9 comments  

Labels: Freedom, Fulfillment, Hope, True Stories

Box-Car Portly Goes to Wichita
Sunday, December 30, 2007

Since this came up in second place in the poll on which of the Portly Parables I might share next, here goes. (Some of you may be relieved to know that this story will have little, if any, socio-political significance whatsoever.)

Before we begin, you must raise your right hand and repeat after me: "I, [your name], do solemnly swear that I will never, ever, ever tell this story to Portly's Mother, lest my most beloved part of my anatomy shrivel and fall off."

Oh. Better add an "Amen" there, just for good measure.

I've told my mother most of the stupid, dangerous stuff I did as a kid. With the exception of this story. Somehow, I have an intuitive sense that, even though this story occurred over 35 years ago, it would haunt her dreams. (Don't worry -- it's not gorey or anything -- it's just one of those motherly nightmare things.)

*Now magically sealing the energetic field around my blog to prevent mother-leakage.*

There. I think we can begin now.
***********************************

School was out, and an unexpected June mugginess had descended over our town. I had a learner's permit in my pocket and a few weeks to wait until I turned 16.

My parents -- both teachers -- both veterans of three previous teenagers, were never perplexed when I left the house from dawn to dusk on such days. In fact, I imagine they were relieved. I was now two years from graduation, when their 25-year gauntlet as guardians of their spawn would shift to something more gently advisory, less stringently vigilant.

As for me, I'd learned well from my siblings -- how far I could stretch a curfew, which behaviors were likely to evoke full-on ancestral wrath, and which would elicit only a faux-disapproving glance in public, followed by a private chuckle at my audacity. I got good grades, and when I did raise hell, I managed to cover my tracks well enough that the parental-units were usually none the wiser.

So it was, that, on Summer days like this, I wandered my world with a fair degree of freedom.

I was with three friends that day, doing what is now known as "fucking around" (nothing sexual involved). I believe we called it "hanging out" or "shitting around" in those days.

Where I grew up, nearly every place that could actually be called a "town" had active railroad traffic through it. Even the teeny-tiny places had a grain-elevator, with the requisite steel rails running by. The town we had moved to the Summer before, when I was 14, was larger than any place I had lived in the past, and so, had several parallel sets of tracks running east to west right through the middle of town. (When I go back to visit, I still wake and sigh deliciously to the lonely wail of train whistles in the night. We don't have that here.)

The trains had to slow down through town. They crossed Commercial Street just south of the business district, and although there were a few underpasses, most intersections had the traditional clanging lights and cross-arms.

For the life of me, I can't remember who named this game, or exactly when I learned it. I had watched it done when I was younger in another town, and I know for sure that I had first tried it out personally the previous Fall, when I was new to town and anxious to impress and acquire friends.

The game is called "Catch the Train".

You wait for the train to slow down as it passes through town, run alongside an open box-car (or a closed box car with a ladder going up one end) and either jump into the car, or grab the ladder, ride to the other end of town, and jump off before the train starts accelerating as it slides off into the open prairie.

(Now you know why you must never, ever, ever tell Portly's Mother this story.)

In retrospect, I think now that the railroads must have already been dying. There were nearly always open, empty, box-cars -- most of them in grave disrepair -- rusty, smelly . . . . romantic.

On this particular muggy day, we were doing what we had done every day since school let out: First, we tried to score some pot -- if successful, we hung out at the graveyard -- if unsuccessful, we played Catch the Train.

We had already agreed that this day's game was remarkably unchallenging, as the engine pulling the car we had jumped into was completely stopped, but we figured "What-the-Hell -- a ride across town is better than hanging out at Sonic!"

So, we settled in and waited for the train to get moving again. Which it eventually did, after we had perched inside that fucking easy-bake oven of a box-car for what seemed like forever, too scared to dangle our feet out one of the doors, in case a yardman came by.

We boarded this car sometime around 1 pm. It was hot in there. No -- I mean -- it was H-O-T hot in there. When the train finally started moving, the movement of air around our cut-offs and tank-tops was an incredible relief, and we watched the town roll slowly by, only daring to approach the open doors once we had crossed the main drag (you never know when your mom might be the first person in line at the cross-arms).

We were approaching the edge of town, and we all lined up on our butts on the north door of the car, ready to jump out. This box-car had doors open on either side, but the south embankment had a bit of a drop-off.

Funny thing though. As the train approached our usual dropping-off point (out by what is now "Bel-Air Drive", but what was, at that time, an open field), the train started accelerating to "No fucking way am I jumping off" speed.

After a couple minutes of teenage freak-out, we all relaxed. "Hey, it'll have to slow down through Strong City. We can hitch back from there. No prob. It'll be an adventure!" Strong City was 20 miles away. No prob.

We settled in to enjoy the ride through the Flint Hills (which are, IMO, truly lovely at any time of year, and one of the things I miss about Kansas, in addition to the train-whistles). A hot breeze whooshed through the car, and we probably said a lot of stupid shit (that pot would have come in handy about now).

Before we got to Strong City, though, without slowing at all, the train turned South. Doug said: "Do you remember what the letters on the side of the train were?" (His dad had some railroady-connection.).

More teenaged freak-out "What do you mean?! Why are you asking that!? Oh My God! Where are we going!?" Doug managed to get us calmed down fairly quickly (he was a lovely, laid-back pot-head who would later hi-jack me on his motorcycle and take me out to the water-plant to get stoned -- I realize now that maybe he had a crush on me, but I was clueless about that shit. And stoned.)

Doug explained to us that we were probably on the Santa Fe freight line, and that it was fine, because it went through a whole bunch of towns and would have to slow down sometime, and when it did, we could jump off and either wait for a freight-line going the other direction, or hitch-hike home. No prob.

Well, he was right about some things.

The train did go through a whole bunch of towns.

But it never slowed down.

After we watched three or four grain-elevators and as many cross-barred intersections with cars stacked up at them go by, I started to feel the stirrings of that uniquely teen-aged version of the "Oh Shit Response" rising in my gut.

Plus, I had to pee.

Our cheery banter died out to occasional desperate exclamations of "It has to stop sometime, right?", and now-hollow reiterations of "No prob!" "It's an adventure!"

Inside, I was thinking: "El Dorado. They have to stop in El Dorado! Don't they? What time is it? How long have we been on the train? Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. How the hell am I going to explain this?"

We did reach El Dorado -- and we kept right on going. Didn't slow down (at least, not enough to ensure a jump-off free of broken bones). Didn't stop. Just turned West again.

From my adult perspective of this experience, I now realize that the conductor was probably trying to "make up time" after the long delay in my home town. At the time, however, I don't think I was experiencing much empathy for the conductor. In fact, I don't think I even had a concept that there was someone whose job it was to drive the train. I was just rolling through an ever-increasing miasma of adolescent freak-out . . . . accompanied by breath-taking scenery.

I think this was the moment that we started to plan. I had actually ridden the train all the way to Santa Fe, New Mexico, and I was, at this point, not ready to rule this out as our final destination, sometime tomorrow morning. My friends (especially Doug) were more practical -- they were attempting to come up with a story that we would all tell our parents that was so easy to remember, and so plausible, that there would be no possible way that They could trip us up. Preferably a story where we were helpless victims of something so scary that our parents would just be relieved that we were safe.

And then it happened. The train started to slow down. To really slow down. And finally, to stop.

We jumped the fuck out of that box-car immediately.

And found ourselves standing in a huge train-yard somewhere just north of Wichita, Kansas (90 miles or so from our home town).

There were something like 15 parallel tracks (try to just imagine some CGI version of this where the parallel train tracks are running infinitely off into the distance on each side, cluttered with many, many, many trains facing different directions, because this is how it seemed to my hormonally-saturated brain during this moment of anticipated parental outrage).

There are trains with car after car loaded with cattle shoving and stinking and shitting and bawling. There are trains sitting empty and forlorn which look as if they are never, ever, ever moving from this spot. There are trains slowly rolling through with closed, then open, then closed, then open box-cars. We are four young idiots, standing in this chaos.

Terri has a bright idea. "There!" she says, "That one's pointed the other way!!"

Thank God for Doug. Nerdy, pot-head Doug. Doug of the inherited railway wisdom. Doug of the laconic, no-prob demeanor. If not for him, I might have hurled myself from a train that day in the middle of the Flint Hills, in a fit of pubescent panic and need-to-pee.

"No," he said. He turned back to look at the insignia on the box-car we had jumped out of. "We need that line -- but headed East. Everybody look for that symbol." (Train buffs will probably know that we were riding what was then the Santa Fe line, now the BNSF -- and that the Santa Fe cross was all you needed to ID your line.)

It's kind of a miracle that we didn't come into any contact with adults there. We three girls squatted somewhere hidden to take a welcome leak. I imagine Doug relieved himself somewhere, too, as we fanned out a bit (but not too far!) to search for the magical, mystical Santa Fe cross.

We stepped over, or crawled under, massive metal linkages (REMEMBER -- DO NOT TELL MY MOTHER!) to a stopped train on the tracks, which was, at least for the moment, pointed homeward, and in possession of the correct insignia. We had to go way further toward the engine than any of us were comfortable with to find an open car, but there were grownups milling around up toward the engine, so we figured it was not just parked for the night. The back cars were filled with cattle, and Doug assured us that they weren't likely to just leave them sitting there.

At this point there was a lot of "Are you sure?" and "What if it goes off in another direction?", but in the end, we crawled into an even stinkier, rustier box-car and sat there, hoping that the fucking train was actually going to move, and move in the right direction, and slow down when it got to our town.

Dinner at my house was served 5:30 pm. Every night. Dinner was like the early-evening bed-check -- if you weren't there, you had better by god have notified everyone of where, and with whom, you would be taking sustenance -- because everyone knew you could DIE if you didn't eat three squares a day.

Keep in mind: Cellular phones were barely a twinkle in the eye of an unborn geek at this time, and while it's true that pay-phones only cost a dime, a collect long-distance phone call fell, in my family's valuation scheme, somewhere between King's-Ransom and kidney-donation.

So, I simply had to get home in time for dinner. Failure was not an option.

And the train began to move. Very slowly at first, and we held our breaths every time it seemed to falter, waiting for the dreadful track switch that might have us hurtling off to Oklahoma City, or Lubboch, or Santa Fe.

But no. It went right back the way we'd come.

It did, however, slow down to perfect jumping-off speed at every fucking town we'd come through on our way to Wichita, as I was shrieking "Come on! Come on! Get this thing moving!!! What TIME is it!?!?!"

I don't really remember the ride home. This, I suppose, is what happens when we are so projected into some future event (dinner, 5:30) that we don't notice what is happening in the moment.

The train slowed down for our town. Finally. At last. We considered jumping off at the West end of town, just to be certain sure, but Doug encouraged us to wait until we were closer to downtown, where we could all walk home in a leisurely manner. Since he had "saved" us, we listened, but jumped off a half-mile or so away from where we'd boarded.

I got home around 5:20.

I never played Catch the Train again.

DO NOT tell my mom.

Posted byPortlyDyke at 11:55 PM 10 comments  

Labels: True Stories