Image 01

emmanation

You like me! Of course, you probably don't know me very well.

Archive for February, 2011

anticipating the ow

Monday, February 28th, 2011

WARNING
If you do not want to hear about my birth control stop reading.
I’m not kidding.
I’ll put a picture in here so you don’t accidentally read while you’re clicking away.
If you read it anyway, I will not listen to any ‘ew’ related comments.

Ok, so – right before my 25th birthday, I got an IUD. Despite the excellent safety record of birth control pills, I felt sort of icky when I realized I was closing in on ten years of what is essentially hormone therapy.

This is the story of me getting my IUD.

I was working as a pastry chef at the time and didn’t have health insurance. Being the responsible woman that I was, though, I was still going in for a yearly gynecological exam. When I told the Planned Parenthood (thank you, Planned Parenthood, for being there for me when I was uninsured) doctor that I wanted to get off of hormones, she laid my options out for me. There were more localized hormone solutions (like the patch, which I had an allergic reaction to), shots, barrier methods (which I never tried but come on, could a diaphragm sound more like a pain in the ass?), and the IUD.

She told me that IUDs weren’t usually for women who hadn’t had children, but she didn’t tell me why and she said I’d be fine.

You know why it’s better for women who have had kids?

Because things get… ahem … stretched out when you have kids. Cervical type things. And those things get stretched out with the help of natural physiological responses. It’s not pleasant then, so I’ve heard, but you get a baby afterwards.

If those things aren’t stretched out, an IUD has to fit through a much smaller space before ending up where it belongs.

It hurt so much. SO much. When they inserted it I held the hand of the nurse and I yelled cuss words at the ceiling. When she looked like she was going to laugh, I seriously considered punching her.

Once it was in, though, I mostly loved it. I recommend it all the time.

I’ve had it for five years (it’s supposed to be good for up to ten), and it’s starting to hurt. I’m assuming that isn’t good.

I’m getting it taken out on Friday and going back to the pill.

I’m now accepting suggestions for curse words to yell at the ceiling, and any compelling ways to avoid punching any nurses.

Oh, and sympathy. I’m accepting pre-emptive sympathy.

you crazy dog lovers and your uteruses

Friday, February 25th, 2011

Ok so.

I have this class.

It’s called ‘Globalization’.

The broad concern of this course is to examine  the nature of globalization and to analyze its implications for  economic, social, and political, and cultural processes.  The word globalization has permeated everyday discourse, and it is  used  casually  to explain  diverse  phenomena  as well as to justify a host of  government actions and policies.

The above is from my syllabus.I just put it in here in case you thought a class called ‘Globalization’ was not a serious class.

My professor is a total nutball. He’s this sort of medium-to-old guy who hollers a lot. He gets carried away sometimes and starts speaking quickly and hopping from topic to topic. I sometimes lose him, actually, because (as I’ve mentioned before) I’m not good with accents. I respected the ever loving hell out of the man.

Then.

Today.

At the end of a class in which we had a spirited and intelligent discussion about healthcare, which I participated in spiritedly and intelligently, he said the following.

“I’ve noticed that women will empty their bank accounts for their sick dogs . They’ll go broke for something that will only live another few years!” If you’re not hearing disdain in your head when you read that, insert some and go back and read it again, because it was positively dripping.

He then proceeded to take a survey. A gender specific survey. As in, he first asked the seven women in the room how much money they’d spend on their sick dog, if they had one. We mostly ignored him, because class was over and we were packing up, so he asked it again. Then added costs – as in “$500?” “$1000?” “$5000?”. A few girls answered, at some point, and then he asked the men.

Some guy who thinks he’s funny said, “As much as is in my wallet, as long as it’s not more than $25”.

Chuckle.

No, really, can’t you hear me chuckling? Letting loving companions die so you can keep $26 is funny!

Here’s what he did, with that one statement. He put every single woman he’s ever taught into a ‘women love animals and aren’t good with money’ bucket. That one statement, that he then pushed with his little ‘survey’, rolled us into a single package. A single package that perpetuates many of the things that people believe to be true about women. Especially people (ahem, men) who attend colleges that have an engineering focus.

The thing that bugs the ever loving shit out of me is that he is in a position of respect and authority. He is careful to qualify it when he says things about minorities in America – he gives the context and the background for his statement, and then he allows us to challenge him. He has spoken with a fair amount of respect before about the affect of equality for women has on both intra- and international economics.

And yet, with that one statement, he turned our previously integrated class into an us and them. He’s never asked who was a Republican and who was a Democrat (although the four minute lecture I gave today when someone mentioned that he didn’t understand why Planned Parenthood was getting federal funding probably tipped everyone off with regards to my party alliance). He’s never singled out the several international students that we have. Fuck, he’s never asked the petroleum engineers to stand up and identify themselves, even when we’re discussing petroleum engineering related topics.

And yet us ladies and our affinity for doggies and our inability to weigh the pros and cons of the love and affection of an animal versus thousands of dollars in our bank account, that was fair game.

He made it seem ok.

It’s not ok.

I do love my dogs. I would probably spend an amount of money on them that someone who does not have dogs would find ridiculous. That may in fact have something to do with biology and estrogen and whatever. If that’s the case, I’m not exactly sure why I find Crockett talking to Maida when he thinks I can’t hear him, but fine. Estrogen makes me want to take care of little furry things. Maybe.

In what possible way does that make it ok to put every person with a uterus into a ‘silly girls and their puppies’ bucket?

It doesn’t.

I can be your hero baby

Wednesday, February 23rd, 2011

I have health insurance, through the school.

Yes, I have health insurance. Yes, not everyone does. Yes, I am well aware that in a catastrophe I would be much much better off than someone who was not currently as fortunate as I am.

Here’s what I’m confused about.

What, exactly, in the non-catastrophic sense, is it doing for me?

Last fall I did two things. I went to the emergency room for what I suspected was appendicitis but turned out to be a burst ovarian cyst (yeah it was super fun) and I had a physical.

Both of these were pre-cleared by my insurance company and were carried out at a location my insurance company thumbs upped.

I’ve entirely lost track of who is sending me what bills. I’ve been billed by the hospital, the ER, the ultrasound people, my doctors office (three separate times), and literally more labs that I can count without the bills arrayed in from of me.

I don’t want to add it all up right now, because it will depress me, and obviously you don’t need to know the details. However, with the $250 bill that came today I very very definitely crossed a sad sad line in the life of Emma’s bank account.

The bill was for two tests that my doctor said were part of the standard college physical. Which apparently, although it’s required, my college insurance doesn’t cover.

To add insult to injury, my insurance company mailed me a check that came in the same delivery as the $250 bill. The check was for four dollars and thirty one cents. It came with no explanation, but I assume they discovered that a doctor in fact used a less expensive plastic blood container instead of a glass one – you know, while I was crying in pain – and I was due a refund. I can’t think of any other explanation.

I understand that healthcare is expensive. What I don’t understand is why I paid for insurance if the insurance DOESN’T ACTUALLY STOP ME FROM PAYING FOR ANYTHING ELSE.

All of this is why Drew, of Toothpaste for Dinner, is my hero today.

The revenge date

Tuesday, February 22nd, 2011

As far as I can tell, there are three reasons that people start dating again after a breakup.

Reason 1

They’re ready.

This is obviously the least interesting reason.

Also, if you’re looking to get back on the market, this is the reason you should wait for.

PSA over.

Reason 2

They’re looking for help getting over their ex. Perhaps this new love will be awesome in all the ways that the old love was not. Maybe the new love will NOT talk about work at dinner, and our theoretical dater will be able to spend all evening mentally comparing the old love to the new love, to the old love’s detriment.

The problem here, of course, is that our theoretical ‘new love’ is getting screwed here, because instead of being appreciate for his or her actual awesomeness, he or she is only a canvas for comparison and complaint.

This is, of course, only a bummer if the ‘new love’ actually likes our dater. If, perhaps, our new love is getting a delicious dinner or something out of the deal and is ok with that, then by all means our dater should use someone more fabulous to forget about their old love.

Reason 3

The REVENGE DATE.

This is the whole reason I’ve been thinking about this. I’ve been watching an ensemble tv show and I noticed that every time someone in the group started dating someone new, the new person was inevitably paraded in front of the ex, usually sooner rather than later.

The revenge date is based solely on that concept. Our dater picks someone new and goes somewhere the ex may appear, or somewhere the ex will hear about – or if all that fails, posts pictures of the date on Facebook.

Don’t do this.

The revenge date is mean.

So to review – if you’ve recently been through a breakup, you can date if you’re ready. If you’re not ready, you can date people who know you’re not ready if you’re able to provide good company

You can’t go on a revenge date.

It’s just not allowed.

all the little birdies on jay bird street

Friday, February 18th, 2011

I sort of inadvertantly quit twitter for awhile, but I’m back.

You know how people are always saying that super irritating thing where they’re all ‘dude, social media is a conversation‘? If you don’t, just believe me when I say they are. People say that. Loudly and irritatingly. Usually to help prove that they themselves are super connected to the social media scene – perhaps in a way you yourself are not, Ms. Oh-you-didn’t-know-it-was-a-conversation.

What I noticed when I tried to rejoin, though, is that it’s less of a conversation than it is a rapidly moving highway. You get off, and then you try to get back on and people are zooming past you with jokes about Wisconsin (seriously, what’s happening in Wisconsin?) and you have month old replies that were hilarious but you didn’t notice them, and you respond and the person who wrote them in the first place doesn’t even remember who you are, much less what the hell the two of you were talking about four whole weeks ago.

Four weeks in twitter time is like ten years in real life.

I missed ten years.

In twitter time I’m now 40.

Now that I’ve mixed several metaphors and have completely stopped making sense, I’ll return to the point.

I’m back on twitter.