Relationships

My Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Breakup

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I grew up with a strict mother who only believed in dating after marriage (well okay, at least halfway through a college degree). Yet once I was in college, I never really met anyone I deemed worthy of my time or attention. I had my share of awkward texting, a few month-long flings, but nothing with an official title or anyone worth spending the holidays with.

By the time I moved to India, I had somehow managed to escape 5 years in the largest city in America with no relationship. So you can imagine my surprise upon meeting my first serious boyfriend mere months after arriving in Bangalore. Apparently, all I needed was a city three times the population of New York to find someone compatible.

It was a whirlwind, passionate—ahem, disgusting—romance; we were joined at the hip, spoke in our own gross code, and everyone rightfully hated us for it.  Within three months, we told each other we loved one another; within four, we were visiting each other’s families (even the extended ones in Indian villages!); six brought us on multiple vacations; and eight solidified that we were going to get married at some point and even get matching tattoos (gag, I know).

While nothing is wrong with an intense romance, I realize in hindsight (funny how that always works) that we were completely incompatible for each other. We were each other’s crutch, not complements; there were many inherent traits—passivity, indecisiveness, laziness—that would not have worked long-term. Okay, fine, I’m sure there were many traits of mine that were flawed as well, but since it’s my shitty breakup, let’s just bypass that.

Yes, you read right: breakup. Since it has been over nine months and I’ve moved on to greener pastures, I can look back on that brutal breakup with a sense of a relief, instead of the initial heartbreak that it caused.

So let’s rewind back in time to March of this year. Fresh off a weekend with my family, my boyfriend, the anonymized “AS,” left for a beach town in northern India for a week-long work retreat. Since his coworkers were scattered all over India and Africa, the retreat was an opportunity to get face-to-face interaction. The week would consist of team-building exercises during the day, before enjoying the beach and parties in the evening.  All friends and family were welcome to join on the weekend, which is exactly what I had planned.

During the week, AS regaled me with tales of group dynamics, fun beach parties, and the mushy stuff that made me excited to join him over the weekend. He also mentioned the Uganda-based employee and new hire, Renee. Renee was a very cute girl, I would totally love her, she was perfect for his coworker John. And, ha, John was trying so hard to hook up with Renee!

Thursday night, I boarded a 12-hour overnight bus to the beach town. AS was planning on picking me up at the bus stop. After a bumpy ride where I stayed awake most of the time, I called AS around 6:30am to let him know I was close.  No answer. I waited a bit before calling a few more times and texting; each time, he never answered.  So I got off at the random bus stop in an unknown town at 7 am where I didn’t speak the language or even know the hotel name so I could call and figure out why my boyfriend failed to show.

Around 7:15am, AS called back, groggy and confused. He claimed he slept through his entire alarm after partying the night before. He gave me the hotel address and I played charades with a taxi driver before navigating to the hotel. Though annoyed, I was happy to see AS and enjoy the early morning beach with him. Immediately, I also met all of his bosses and coworkers, including Renee, and spent the morning with them.

After a long morning, we retired to our respective beach huts for a nap. “Want to grab something to eat?” I asked AS, as I hung our swimsuits to dry. AS stayed silent for a minute before he whispered, “Shilp, I need to tell you something. I hooked up Renee last night.” I pinched my forefinger with one of the clothespins, “Fuck these clothespins!” I exclaimed.

AS began to stammer. “I mean all week we were getting along really well. Last night we had been drinking and I decided to leave the group to get my phone from the hut. She followed me and one thing lead to another…” His voice trailed off.

I stared intently at my clothespin attacker wondering what sort of dickhead would use such an archaic way of dealing with clothes. A clothespin was just a glorified paper clip.

“She has a hickey on her neck, and I didn’t want you to get suspicious,” AS rambled.

A hickey? Have they made a resurgence post high school?

“Actually, she has a boyfriend she lives with in Uganda… so…”

Initially, I couldn’t process what had happened. Then the shock began to fade, and anger started to sink in. AS left me stranded at a bus station because he spent all night having sex with a coworker he’d been gushing about over the phone all week. Though I was on my way to see him, though his entire company knew of my existence, he completely disrespected and humiliated me by screwing a coworker who was also cohabitating with her boyfriend hours before my arrival. And since I couldn’t get another bus or flight out earlier than Sunday (it was now Friday evening) I was legitimately trapped for the next 36 hours with AS, her, his company, and what was supposed to be a beach holiday.

Her beach shack was directly across from ours. In the mornings when I went to retrieve my swimsuit, I saw her doing the same.  She and her hickey that my boyfriend left her sat at the end of the dinner table I shared, rejoicing in moments with the rest of the team.  While my boyfriend played a pathetic dog, stuck to my side, I was completely aware of her glances, her frowns, her desperate brown eyes staring AS up and down when he was with me.

AS and I didn’t talk much during those 36 hours. I put on a happy façade though I just wanted to constantly vomit; no one suspected anything. The night before we were scheduled to leave, we separated ourselves from Renee and went to a party on the beach. Yet just like an annoying zit on your chin, Renee and the rest of the team showed up. I watched her like a hawk, hoping she’d keep her distance from me. AS never told her once to stay away. Shameless people, however, have no boundaries—within minutes she’d bring drinks from the bar to peddle off to AS or try to engage him in conversation.

Maturity and taking the higher road sure is a bitch: the last 24 hours of playing the Stepford wife had been killing me. I felt suffocated in my own body, wanting to tear my skin off and run. So that is exactly what I did—well, the running part. Like a bad Jennifer Aniston movie, I found myself at 1am sprinting down the beach towards my shack in tears as AS’s ass lagged behind, yelling for me to stop. Stop? I wanted to drown.

Hell froze over and Sunday finally rolled around and it was time to catch our flight. As we joined the rest of the team to say our goodbyes, I stared directly at Renee and her hickey. The entire weekend of suppressing my urge to smack her across the face had manifested in my throat; I looked at her intently, smiled and declared loudly (in front of her bosses, coworkers, and naturally, AS), “Renee, I want to thank you for such an amazing weekend. Please tell your live-in boyfriend in Africa that I would love to meet him: it sounds like we’d have so much in common.”

Then I lit a cigarette and threw the match behind me as the entire shack burst into flames. Well, okay, I just stormed off. But later I found out that Renee burst into tears in front of her entire company, so that’s really just a legal way of doing the same thing.

Ultimately, reader, you guessed it (seriously, you guys are way smarter than me), AS and I broke up. He never once stood up for me during the entire experience and continued to fluctuate between ambivalence for his actions and pathetic groveling. His passivity was astounding, even during the breakup. It was a clean cut—no follow-up emails, no phone calls, no run-ins. It was so clean that it made me question if our entire relationship had actually occurred—overnight, all proof of its existence was wiped. To this day, I struggle, wondering if he ever loved me. I also wish I had said something sharper to Renee. Don’t you hate it when all of your great comebacks come to you hours later?

Maybe it’s the universe giving me an epically shitty breakup because I was deprived of partially shitty breakups throughout college. Maybe it’s fate intervening to keep me from wasting more time with such an immature child. Regardless, at the end of the day, it’s science telling me that I at least deserve a better travel partner.

What did I learn from this breakup and relationship? Always keep his hard drive of movies.

Recently, a mutual friend drunkenly told me that he saw Facebook photos of AS gorilla-trekking in Uganda… presumably gifting Renee more hickeys.  My thoughts on that? Well, some species haven’t evolved like the rest of us.

Photo by Sara Slattery

Photo by Sara Slattery

Relationships

Clear History: Porn and the Long Term Relationship

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“All I’m saying is… if we like, move in together or get engaged or something, I don’t want to find out he’s watching porn ever again,” a dear friend confessed to me in a scandalized whisper over a bottle of wine one night.

I was floored when I heard her say this. This was a girl who was comfortable with her sexuality and was always up for dishing about her most recent inappropriate nocturnal activities. I snorted into my glass of Merlot and said, “Yeah, okay. And what’s he gonna do if he ever catches you watching porn?”

“I don’t watch porn,” she said.

“Lies.”

“I don’t need to,” she argued. “Why would I? My relationship isn’t missing anything. Sex is great how it is.”

She then elaborated on how degrading pornography is towards women and that she didn’t understand why her boyfriend, a self-professed male feminist who was down to take his wife’s name when he got married, could allow himself to watch it.

And thus began a long day’s girl talk into night as she and I hashed out the place of pornography in today’s long term relationships. It was a doozy.

My side of the argument sounded a little something like this:

It’s important for both parties in a long-term partnership to be able to express their feelings about porn, because guess what: it’s here to stay. We can’t get rid of it as long as the Internet is also here to stay (and I’m pretty sure that’s a given). Gone are the days when a guy would sneak away at 3 pm on a Sunday, pop the collar of his shady looking trench coat, and duck into a dirty movie. As adults engaging in sexual relationships in the 21st century, it would be naïve as all hell for us to pretend that porn doesn’t have a seat at the table (er… in the bed?). It’s too accessible. You cannot pretend that your significant other isn’t ever going to watch it again if he or she is already in the habit of doing so. If my friend came down hard on her boyfriend for watching porn, he would probably just start sneaking it, and then it would turn into this weird, dirty secret he had. Why have weird, dirty secrets if you don’t need to have them? Unless you like having them—but, that’s neither here nor there.

My friend and I then chewed over this idea that, if someone watches porn, is he or she fantasizing about something that is missing in his or her relationship? This was the reason she said she didn’t “need” to watch porn, and one of the reasons she was offended when she found out her boyfriend occasionally did. I guess the thought process goes like this: if your significant other is seeking out a very specific type of fetish every time he or she pulls up the YouPorn home page, you might conclude that he or she wants you to incorporate said very specific fetish into your sexytime routine. But the truth is that he or she likes it because it’s not real life; it’s a fantasy, an indulgence. It would lose its allure if it were part of reality.

“Listen, you don’t watch him play Grand Theft Auto and think he’s going to run around the city jacking cars and running over innocent bystanders, right?” I asked her.

She agreed that the analogy made a lot of sense. Even if her guy was peeping on some kind of freaky stuff, it did not necessarily mean that she was expected to imitate it IRL. After all, porn doesn’t show you what it’s like to have sex with someone you’re emotionally invested in. It’s not a roadmap by any means! It’s important that both people in the relationship know that.

My friend then conceded that maybe porn did have its benefits because it can help people deal with the boundaries of a monogamous relationship, especially if a monogamous relationship is what you ultimately aspire to. Sometimes we have to resist the urge to behave like animals. I wholeheartedly agreed: everyone, male or female, gay or straight, has had to avoid forbidden fruit at one point or another. Porn allows people to keep their shit together in real life; the temptation for forbidden fruit is super rare if said forbidden fruit isn’t looked upon as a super rare thing.

At that point, we circled back around to this idea that pornography is, traditionally, just plain offensive to women. If a teenage boy is caught looking at porn, a lot of parents might write it off as “totally normal for his age.” But if a young lady were caught in the same predicament… well, it goes without saying: we’re kind of not supposed to like porn. Because, as she argued, porn, in the “classical” sense, degrades females. There’s really no getting around that.

However, thanks to the Internet, more varied types of erotica have become accessible these days. It’s no longer 100% for-dudes-by-dudes, I argued back. I encouraged her to give it a whirl sometime and see if there was anything out there that she might like.

We hit the bottom of the bottle about an hour later and found our conversation in a very different place than where it had started. But my friend seemed much happier and far more relaxed now that she’d aired out her concerns. We agreed that monogamous couples don’t have to turn a blind eye to porn in our relationships and marriages if we don’t want to. And it might be healthier not to do so, especially considering it is everywhere!

And as for her boyfriend’s status as a self-professed feminist—his rep can remain intact.  We settled on this: it’s okay for a guy who upholds those ideals to find something sexy even if it goes against the feminist grain. If a person is a champion for non-traditional gender roles at home and in the workplace, the fact that they like guy-on-top sex shouldn’t discredit said championing. Sometimes, the body just wants what it wants—which is also probably what hurts the most for someone like my friend. Why does the body want that? I don’t know. Ask the cavemen, I guess. We also discussed the fact that it seems like a huge percentage of women secretly prefer guy-on-top-type sex as well—women who want their guy to “be in control” in the bedroom. But a great deal of ladies are hesitant to really own up to it because they don’t want to sound like a scab to the feminist agenda. Feminism and pornography have been waging a very complex cold war for years, so I didn’t want my buddy to think of it in such black-or-white terms. If she loved this guy (and of course, she did), she would have to find a way to navigate this question with an understanding, open mind.

If you’re invested in someone and you really care about them, hold their sexuality to the same standard that you hold your own. Don’t put them down if they enjoy certain things. Respect the chemistry, as Walter White would say. Porn doesn’t have to draw a dividing line between two people in a relationship. If you approach the subject in a respectful manner, it might even strengthen your relationship in ways you never expected.

I’m happy to report that my bud is now engaged to this awesome fellow. I’ll take a smidgen of credit where credit is due for this one (though that bottle of wine probably deserves an honorable mention, too).

Have your own opinion? Share it in the comments!

Photo by Sara Slattery

Relationships

The End of a Girl Crush

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I met B on one of my family trips to China.  I was 16, she was 17, but B was already so much more mature and sophisticated than me.  She was a bit of a socialite, honestly, and handled everything with an easy grace that clung to her like perfume.

Her dad and mine were good friends and, since I was in China by myself, she had been tasked with making sure I didn’t get bored or accidentally sell myself to the Triads.  To my surprise, instead of being annoyed or half-assing her guardianship duties, B threw herself into them. I found myself bewildered by the amount of excited attention I was getting from this very wealthy, vividly charming, porcelain doll of a “young woman.”  Not “girl,” a distinction that I noticed was made by all of the adults around us.

In case you couldn’t tell, I had a bit of a girl-crush on B.  And since I can already hear my friend Alex saying “Lez be honest,” let me clarify what a “girl-crush” actually entails to me.  Basically it’s another girl in whom you recognize a bit of yourself, whether it’s her sense of humor or her interests or whatever but she’s somehow managed to amplify herself with some secret quality that you can sense hovering just beyond your grasp.  You want her as your best friend because secretly, part of you kinda sorta wants to be her.  A little creepy, sure, but in my definition, it’s not a romantic attraction.

Anyway, so I was pretty fascinated by her and when she suggested we jump on a bus tour to one of the neighboring provinces, I was completely on board.  I was also completely out of my depth. I’d never really traveled on my own before and, even though I could speak Mandarin fluently, I was going to be facing a bit of a language barrier. All of the rural provinces preferred to use their native dialects (many of which are incomprehensible even to Mandarin speakers) and I was (am) illiterate in Chinese.  Thank goodness for B, who obviously had the language proficiency but also proved herself very capable of handling all sorts of scenarios.  She knew exactly how to walk the line between demanding and gracious with hotel concierges, how to be just the right amount of stubborn when haggling with artisans from the local tribes, and how to judge whether or not jade was “ripe” enough (don’t ask, I still have no idea what she was talking about.)

While we marveled at the breathtaking sights, B told me about all the places that her eternal wanderlust took her.  While she was at it, she’d dump loads of advice and personal research into our conversations. I soaked this up like a sponge, all the while thinking to myself, “I’ve always wanted an older sister.”  I cringe a little when I think about it but I took to every one of her ideas like she was handing me a secret guidebook to enlightenment.  She just seemed so certain of everything.  Every choice was so thoughtfully yet effortlessly made.  Next to her, I felt so manic and so restlessly lost inside my own head.

I was hitting that point in life when you first realize that the world is much larger than you could’ve ever imagined and more daunting than you could ever be prepared for.  And yes, I was freaking the fuck out, but—in true Tiger Cub fashion—very very quietly.  God forbid anyone get the sense that I was actually an adolescent, ya know?  Point being, I latched onto B because I thought she could soothe all those worries away and tell me everything would be okay because I very badly wanted to hear that.  Like, “Girl, please.  This is how you deal.”

Now, of course, I’m aware that this was/is impossible.  That, even at 25, I can’t tell my 18-year-old sister what shape her life should take in order for it to be “okay.”  In fact, I can’t even say I want her life to be “okay” because there is nothing beautiful or glorious or epic about “okay.”  But I can commiserate with what she’s going through and we help each other along—usually pretty gracelessly, but with love and humor.  Ironically, I might have had that experience with B back in the day.  Except I never once opened up to her.  Not really, just gossip about boys and parents, but nothing of true weight.  I was always too worried that these burning, wordless questions I had would feel needy.  And that my neediness would be repulsive to her.  So I clamped my mouth shut and tried to decipher the secrets she seemed to hide in her eyes.

I guess she did the same thing.  Looking back, I realize that there was much about her that didn’t feel quite…okay.  There were holes and crooked lines that whispered about a deeper, more complex ache within her that I was too young to fully understand.  Like when she’d push her bangle down her forearm until it dug angry, red ruts into her skin while she murmured dreamily that she longed to lose enough weight so that the bangle would just slip all the way down to her elbow.  Or when she’d idly pull lacy scraps of lingerie out of her suitcase and talk about the things she’d wear for the boyfriend, whose love for her—she was certain—had grown to an obsessive fever pitch despite the fact that she was equally certain she didn’t love him back.

Nothing really alarmed me though until our last night of the trip.  She and I were wandering around the (tourist trap of a) rustic town on our own when she pulled me into a bar and immediately ordered two whiskey drinks before sitting us down at a four-top table.  I asked her who was joining us and she simply winked and told me to drink up.

This wasn’t my first time drinking alcohol or anything.  One time, when I was 11 and we were on our annual family Christmas trip to Vegas (because Christmas in Vegas is as Asian as dumplings), my dad handed me “Sprite”, which was actually gin, and laughed until he was crying after I spat it across the hotel room.  I had always hated the taste of alcohol and my dad had enjoyed grossing me out with it since I was about 6.  So why did I drink the whiskey?  The promise of enlightenment, that’s why.

Our surprise guest soon showed up—our 27-year-old tour guide, who proceeded to get us very wasted very quickly (not difficult with 5’2” Asian girls.)  I can’t remember much of the conversation but it definitely included 1) criticism of my lack of Chinese culture and 2) sex talk.  To their glee, I was still a virgin and they took this as an opportunity to educate me while trying to one-up each other with…hm…highly detailed stories with a healthy dose of hentai references (look it up.  BUT NOT AT WORK.)  Our guide then dragged us from the bar to a club and then, around 3 am, to a private karaoke room.

I was fading fast by then and I think I dozed off on the couch because I remembered waking up with the tour guide’s arm around me—petting my hair familiarly—while B was singing her heart out to an early 90’s Andy Lau power ballad. I abruptly stood up and teetered over to B’s side.  While the tour guide took his turn on the mic, I asked her if we could go back to the hotel.

I remember her smile, eyes glittering with a strange, innocent mischief as she whispered, “I told him that you like him.”  Aghast, I asked her, “Why?” With a shrug, she replied, “I thought it could be fun.”

I just stared at her, under all that neon and shadow, and realized that she wasn’t going to get us home.

I made up some blatant lies about feeling like I was going to throw up, or pass out, or do both simultaneously, and got them both into a cab that took us back to the hotel.  When we arrived, B was the first out the door and the tour guide took that opportunity to grab my arm and tell me he wanted to take me to “the most beautiful place in the city.”  “Thanks, that’s nice of you, but really.  I’m gonna throw up.” I answered as I scrambled backwards out of the cab.

B didn’t talk about it the next day so neither did I. After all, she hadn’t been malicious in any way, just impulsive.  The tour guide was really just a harmless dweeb. I wanted to ask what she had been thinking but never quite managed to find the moment.  Or the courage, for that matter.

I lost touch with her after I returned to the US but I continued to hear rumors through what I refer to as the “Tiger Mother Grapevine.”  At 24, she’d been disowned when she ran away with a married photographer.  He was 30 years her senior, unattractive, and had abandoned his two-year-old son for her.  When I heard this news, I found myself wishing again—very deeply—I could call her up and ask her what she’d been thinking.  No judgment, just an old instinct to ask her what truth she’d thought she’d found.

Sometimes when I think about her, I imagine that I actually do call her up.  In this fantasy, she’s still that 17-year-old girl—beautifully and mysteriously sad.  But, luckily for both of us, I’m no longer my 17-year-old self.  I wouldn’t keep her at a distance.  I wouldn’t be afraid that my manic messiness would spill all over her.  I’d ask her what’s wrong and maybe she’d tell me and maybe I’d say something that would soothe her.  And then maybe I could get her home.

Photo by Sara Slattery

Photo by Sara Slattery

DIY

Baby’s First Building Project: from Folding Chair to Bar Cart

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Dinner party with a dozen or so close friends, all gathered in the dining room of my house. Various friends and roommates bustle around, getting food on the table and pulling up chairs. Someone inevitably reaches for the bamboo folding chair and I tense up, clutching the plate of Brussels sprouts I’m holding. Our guest flips the chair open with a caviler flick of the wrist, drops it in front of the table and plops down heavily. My face contorts in an anguished wince as I hear the mournful creak of the old, vintage bamboo as it bends under the weight of our unsuspecting guest.

Bar Cart

After this scene had replayed itself several times, I began to wonder. Sure, I didn’t like seeing the pretty, antique bamboo chair that I had thrown down 20 bucks for at Urban Ore subjected to the torment of being sat on. However, it had occurred to me that this was, in fact, the primary function of said chair, and perhaps I should either come to terms with that fact or get rid of the thing.

Needless to say, I sat on this knowledge for a good year or so before springing in to action. And when that day came, I did not take either of the equally undesirable actions I had presented to myself. Instead, I thought, I should repurpose it into something. Something awesome. And finally, one day, after spending a good 2¼ hours pining over bar carts on Pinterest, I leapt to my feet, shouting—“I could use my bamboo folding chair for this! I could use it to make my bar cart!” Eureka.

Now, as the title suggests, I did not go into this endeavor with a whole lot of knowledge or experience. I had used a drill, which was great, and I had been to Home Depot before. That was fine, though: I used my networks, consulting with friends, family, and the Internet.

Starting from the brainstorm stage, I took the chair apart and maneuvered it to try to figure out how, exactly, my finished product would look. This also allowed me to take stock of what else I would need to buy to complete my project. Speaking from the wealth of experience I have gained by building exactly one item, I think that having something tangible to manipulate while you brainstorm can really help you visualize what you want and how you can get there.
Original chair! Chair in pieces on my floor as I brainstorm how to put it together. My wood shelves are there too.
Here are my “L”-shaped supports for the wooden shelves. I just bought a long pice of rectangular wood and cut it into 2 inch pieces.

 

Per my dad’s suggestion, I also measured the materials I had and drew out a sketch, complete with piece measurements and where screws would go. This piece was invaluable—I referred to my sketch often throughout the process and you will too, should you take the prudent route and make a sketch for your own building project. Furthermore, my father’s experience and advice were extremely helpful: no doubt, I would have made a shoddier product were it not for a few of his suggestions. I definitely recommend going over your plan with an acquaintance who has even a tiny bit of experience building something.

In that same vein, when you go to the hardware store to purchase your materials, I also recommend conscripting an employee to help you. This person knows what they are talking about (most of the time, and if they don’t, find someone new). They can help you find the cheapest and best way to get what you need, which can save you money and time. In my experience, hardware stores are way too big and have far too many options for beginners.

Beginning the work back at home, I found the old adage “Measure twice, cut once” to be the best possible advice one could give—­particularly after I had to return to the hardware store after failing to abide by it. Once I finally had my pieces cut and ready, I laid them out to stain them.

A few words about wood staining: It took awhile to stain my pieces and let them dry before I could put the piece together, so if you will be using wood stain or paint, be sure to allow for the necessary time and plan a nice, outdoor place for them to dry without asphyxiating yourself. Also, if you use stain, know that you cannot just throw away the cloth you use, as wood stain is crazy flammable. You have to soak it in water and then do some hazardous waste disposal. (When someone writes an article on how to do that, I’ll let you know. And then, I’ll also finally be able to throw out the small can of water and used stain rag that is currently sitting on the floor of my pantry.)

Finished product, with awesome tray!

Finished product from a new angle – The back of the chair is farther back in the photo, and the seat of the chair is attached right there in the foreground.

While the stained wood was drying, I began to drill my holes. First, I drilled small holes to make and connect little “L”-shaped supports to set the shelf on. Getting those to be even took several rounds of measuring, recruiting people to hold things to getting, using the level, swearing when it wasn’t level, and measuring again. When I finally had those lined up and screwed on, I had a bigger drill situation to attack. I had, by beautiful, divine providence, come across the perfect bamboo hostess tray to sit at the top tier of my cart at an antique store. Perfect – things would now stay put stylishly. However, I still needed a way to keep the big bottles of rum at the bottom to feel and look somewhat secure. I decided to get two dowel rods, stain them, and make a little railing for the bottom tier.

At this time, I learned quite a bit about the drill that I didn’t know. After attempting to drill a hole big enough to fit my ¾ inch dowel rods only to have the drill whine and sputter at me, I learned that it is necessary start with a small hole and enlarge it gradually by using an increasingly larger bit to grow the hole. Though this may seem super obvious, it took me quite some time to figure it out, so I thought I’d save you the trouble. You will not be able to drill a ½ inch hole directly into solid wood. Start with 1/16 and work your way up. Since I was drilling on my beautiful antique chair, I did some practice drills on spare wood to gear myself up for it. Definitely would do again – I learned the hole enlarging tip that way and saved a bunch of heartache.

After all this crazy work of staining, drilling, and leveling, I could finally assembly my cart! I took the beautiful back of the chair propped it up and the “pushing” end of the cart. I used two mega thick dowel rods, stained to match my chair, and fixed them at the other end. To balance the motif of excessive bamboo rods, I took the seat of the chair and nailed it to the barren, dowel rod end of the cart, giving it more life and visual action. Then, I placed my wooden shelves on their little “L”-shaped supports and fit my dowel rods into their now enormous drill-holes and pushed the whole thing together. I dashed in circles around it, drilling anything that made me nervous, until, with a drop of the tired drill hand and a heavy sigh, I collapsed into a kitchen chair. My bar cart was done!
With drinks! And accouterments!

I know there are a million tips and tricks to have a successful building project, and I am still learning so many of them. Still, don’t forget to sand your edges to avoid splinters. Don’t screw screws in too close or the wood will crack. Don’t screw them into slivers of wood too small, either, or the same thing will happen. Use a level so your finished product doesn’t tilt. If the vintage wheels don’t go on, just keep hammering until they do. If you wander antique stores long enough, you’ll find exactly what you need. Make sure, at the end of your project, that you have someone with you whom you can excitedly scream at to “come look” every 5 minutes or so.

And good luck! May your building project bring you as much joy and inebriation as mine has brought me.

Health

What is “Normal”? Dealing with Depression & Anxiety

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“It’s okay. It’ll get better. Everything will be all right.” I hate when people casually say those words to a distressed friend—and, usually, I am that distressed friend.

Photo by Andy Sutterfield

Looking back on my teen years, filled with moments of extreme sadness and anger over my body-image issues and my limitations, it’s tempting to say that my panic attacks and depression started then. I think, however, that I was just a regular moody teenager. But I do know that it was around this time that I adopted habits that later led to my anxiety disorder: I stayed silent, I ate my feelings, I avoided talking about it when others broached the subject, and I became resentful of my friends for their “easy” lives.

Anxiety disorders are the most common mental illnesses in the U.S., affecting 40 million people, roughly 18% of the population. There are a wide variety of them: generalized anxiety, OCD, PTSD, phobias, etc. If you’ve never experienced depression or a panic attack, here’s a rundown: We all experience anxiety, but those who do not have a disorder can rationalize their fears, work through them, and come out with a plan of attack for any issue they’re facing. But when you have an anxiety or panic attack, the fear takes over. You can’t step back, you can’t shake yourself out of that place of fear, and you can’t force yourself to “just not think about it.” I’ve heard people say a panic attack feels like having a rubber band pulled across their chest, or having an elephant sit on them. The first time I felt it, I thought it might be a heart attack: the shortness of breath, the erratic breathing, the tears. After the attack passes, then comes the self-admonishment, the feelings of inadequacy, the thoughts that you must be weak and inferior to those around you because they don’t go through this—all of which feed into depression. And when you’re depressed, you can’t lift yourself out.

Depressed isn’t just sad or frustrated or down. Depression is detached, and that feels worse than the sad times or the panic-stricken times. You hear people say that if you put on a happy face, the good feelings will come. It’s not true. I’m putting on the happy face, I’m being my perky self. I’m at work, I’m with friends, I’m joking, I’m laughing. But there’s a cold layer around me. I feel as though all my movements are jerky and disjointed as I’m internally debating and debasing myself. You try to pull yourself out, wanting to feel something because anything is better than nothing. You try to talk to friends and family about it but you can’t get the words out or, when you do, they don’t know what to do. So they just offer the only comfort they can—“It’s okay.”

Anxiety disorders and depression do not always go hand in hand, nor does one predispose an individual to the other. However, studies show high co-morbidity rates: in a study of 3,000 patients in clinical trials for generalized anxiety or depression, about a third of anxiety disorder patients had severe enough depressive symptoms to enter the depression trials, while two thirds of the patients in the depression trials had anxiety disorders that warranted joining the generalized anxiety trials. I’ve gone through periods of both anxiety and depression, and because I have—because I’ve sought help—I know I’m likely to go through them again. I know it’s not an instance; it’s a cycle that’s repeated and feeds on itself. But I’ve also learned I’m not alone.

When you live with anxiety or depression, you might feel like you’re the only one, until you meet another ‘only one.’ When my attacks clustered closer and closer together and I started distancing myself from friends, I was scared about where I’d end up if I didn’t get help. So, I started talking to friends who I could trust. It helped me to vent and their comfort kept me from feeling like less of a person. But I still felt disconnected from my peers who all seemed to excel, unhindered. Then, a friend confided in me and told me about her own struggles. A coworker revealed the truth about her battle with the same illness. Suddenly, I wasn’t an imperfection in a perfect world; my struggles weren’t proof of my inadequacies as a human being. I was normal, beautifully and imperfectly normal. It seemed weird and maybe even wrong to feel legitimized by other people’s struggles. But I was. And that was worth something.

I’m not saying talking about it always helps, but not talking about it never does. I’d talked to friends mid–panic attack, either calling them or tracking them down at school to explode at them. They weren’t prepared for it, nor did they have the knowledge or skills to deal with it. But as I became more comfortable telling friends about the imperfect areas of my life, they reciprocated that comfort. I found safe zones to talk and let off steam before I reached attack mode.

So, how can you tell if you’re near this precipice? If any of the above resonated with you, you may want to talk to someone (yes, actually voice the thing you’re most desperate to quell). There’s a stigma associated with “not being able to deal.” A coworker who’s faced similar struggles told one of our peers and was discouraged from telling anyone else. But what we’ve experienced is real, and so is the connection I now have with this amazingly strong and beautiful woman. If she hadn’t told me about her situation, we might not have ever had this connection.

Okay, so what should I do? Again, talk about it. I couldn’t afford a therapist, so I looked into group programs I could join, which are cheaper. The people I met there provided me with a support system. If that doesn’t help, maybe one-on-one sessions are a better fit for you. Bear in mind, however, that it can take a couple of tries to find the right therapist or support group. You have to feel as though you’re in a safe place. Don’t settle until you’ve found that.

Aside from the importance of talking about it, I’ve also learned the value of the following:

Don’t Assume

The perception that your friends and family have it easy builds negative emotions and increases your feelings of being different. It’s hard to remember that those around us suffer too, that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side, but try. Resentment only distances you from the positive influences in your life.

Sleep

This can be hard when you lie awake at night for hours thinking of what’s to come. But if you’re prone to missing sleep, don’t go to bed when you have to be up in eight hours. It sounds weird, but budget for the freak out. You’ll cry and you’ll stress, but eventually you’ll be so drained emotionally and physically that you will drift off to sleep. However, if you suffer from insomnia, consult your physician.

Exercise

To quote Elle Woods, “Exercising gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t kill their husbands. They just don’t.” I’ve always hated when people suggested exercise to help with mood, cramps, whatever. But it does help. Exercising results in an increase of serotonin and endorphins, which are chemicals that alleviate depression. But even if that twenty-minute walk around your neighborhood doesn’t do much for you chemically, it at least allows you to have some time alone. You have the opportunity to think things through, to be away from the pile of bills waiting for you on your desk, or your spouse who you just had a fight with.

Stress Less

Easier said than done, I know. But map out the major stressors in your life, talk it through with someone if it helps, and formulate a plan of attack to deal with each one in turn. Try not to think negatively. It’s hard but doable. Instead of thinking of “I can’t get a better job,” say to yourself “I’m going to revamp my resume by the end of the week.” Turn your fears into a to-do list. When you make a mistake, instead of obsessing, take a step back and see what you learned from the mistake and do your best to accept it.

Focus on the Happy

I love journaling because it’s a great way to document milestones and see how far I’ve come. However, when I’m upset and want to gain perspective, looking at old journal entries from when I was down can actually increase my feelings of anxiety or depression. For my New Year’s Resolution, a friend and I started a little yearlong project. We each bought a mason jar and pretty stationary. Every time something good happened or we stumbled upon something random that made us happy, we would write it on a piece of paper and stick it in the jar. Whenever I’m down, I open the jar and read through some of the anecdotes. Remembering those moments and how happy I was when I wrote them down helps to lift me out of my funk.

Health

The ER: It’s nothing like on TV

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Just under 130 million people visit ERs every year, complaining about everything from earaches to broken bones to severe pain. I, myself, have visited the ER more times that I would like to admit, due to some chronic illnesses that love to become acute at the worst of times, combined with a tendency to twist joints in directions they are not meant to go.

Photo by Meaghan Morrison

Photo by Meaghan Morrison

If you’ve never been to the ER, it’s good to know what to expect in advance, because the stress of the situation can easily overwhelm you.

Bring your ID and insurance card: While paperwork is often the last thing you want to think about when dealing with a health crisis, it’s important that you have the necessary documents so that the hospital can easily get you into its system. Without them, it can be a nightmare in the following weeks to  play middle man between the hospital and your insurance company—trust me, I’ve been there. That’s why it’s one of the first things you’ll be asked for: while you’ll never be denied care, insurance or not, having all of your information up-front will save enormous headaches down the road. Usually, registration is quick, and in big emergencies where you can’t really chat with the hospital staff, they’ll get it from a family member or friend as soon as possible. I keep my ID and insurance card with me at all times in my wallet, and I make sure at least one other person can access it: in college, my roommate and I had copies  of everything organized and accessible—it saved the day at least once.

Know your medical history: The first thing you will do after registering in the ER is go through triage, whether you arrive by ambulance or walk through the front door. This is a short process in which a nurse or nurse practitioner will measure your vitals (blood pressure, pulse, oxygen levels, and temperature), find out what symptoms you are experiencing (always be as descriptive and honest as possible—unlike hospitals on TV, they aren’t likely to spend hours and thousands of dollars worth of tests figuring out what you are hiding: drugs, drinking, sex, all of it is important), ask for your pain levels (scale of 1-10), and get your medical history. This will include information like what medication you take, including any vitamins, your drug and alcohol use (again, be honest!), medical conditions, and any past surgeries. If you are female, you will also be asked if there is any chance you could be pregnant and when your last menstrual cycle was (it’s as awkward as it sounds at first, and often I forget—I hate this part). All of this information is key to helping with diagnosis, so it’s important to keep it handy. If you have a few things you need help remembering, keep a list on your phone or somewhere else handy so that the stress of being sick doesn’t cause you to forget the dose of your daily medication or the name of that surgery you had years ago.

The wait: ERs are notorious for their wait times. This is most common in big-city ERs where life-threatening traumas are more commonly experienced. I’ve experienced wait times as short as ten minutes and as long as five hours. It’s a toss-up as to when these times will be the worst, but I’ve found that nighttime is definitely the longest wait. There’s less staff on call, tests take longer, and there are more accidents coming in.. In the end, your wait depends not only on how many people are there but also how ill you are in relation to the other patients. If you are having a long wait and your symptoms change, make sure you let the triage nurse know immediately.

Getting care: Once you are seen, don’t expect there to be a private room: it’s often simply a curtained-off area. This can be extremely awkward at times, because you can hear everything around you. Sometimes it’s difficult to overhear, especially if someone is very sick around you. Other times, you’ll hear the wackiest conversations: I once heard someone find out that they were pregnant with their mother there, and her reaction was hilarious. In the ER, people watching is one of the few forms of entertainment available.

A different nurse will probably take your vitals again, will likely take some blood, and will ask you many of the same questions you were asked in triage. They are required to do this: it’s annoying, especially when you’re stressed and worried, but it ensures that they are getting the right information. Depending on your symptoms and complaints, they may also put you on an IV immediately. An IV is a tube  inserted into a vein, most often in the arm where blood is taken, which facilitates getting fluid into your body (often saline) and medications for pain or nausea. It only takes a minute to insert and, though it’s super uncomfortable, it no longer hurts once it’s in.

After the nurse has seen you, a doctor will follow. Sometimes this wait can also be a bit lengthy, depending on how many people that doctor is covering. He will again ask you about your symptoms and conditions, and may have more extensive questions than you have experienced previously. Depending on your situation, he will then likely order medications or tests to figure out what is going on. Those tests can vary from blood work or urine analysis to an ultrasound, X-ray, or CT scan. Every trip of mine has varied because it really depends on what the issue is. The worst by far for me was when I was in a severe amount of abdominal pain. Seven hours later, I had gone through three rounds of blood work, an ultrasound, a CT scan, and an EKG. Other times, I simply had one test and was out within an hour or two. No matter what, they try to get these done as quickly as possible, but there can be a long wait even when you are in a room.

Leaving the ER: Once the doctor has the results, he or she will either order more tests or, if they’ve found a diagnosis, will get you the right medication or care. Remember that the ERs are for acute care (for sudden and often moderate to severe issues). I’ve always left the ER with a prescription for pain medication or other temporary treatment, with the direction to follow-up with my doctor as soon as possible. Usually, once the major issue is solved, my regular doctors are able to get a better idea of what is wrong and find a long-term solution so that I can avoid acute issues down the road.

If the condition is serious enough, it may warrant admittance to the hospital. I’ve been admitted three times in my life: once right after an emergency surgery, and twice when I spent six days in the hospital before solutions were found and solved by surgeries. Those were expensive, scary, and extreme cases, and I am definitely an exception to the rule: in reality, only about 13% of ER visits result in hospital admissions. Likely, admittance would occur for something like heart trouble, breathing issues that can’t be resolved, severe pain that can’t be managed, dangerous blood pressure, or serious infections. Hospital admissions are expensive and the beds are in high demand, so it requires sound medical necessity. However, if a doctor wants you to be admitted, know that it is in your best interest and they will aim to have you better as soon as possible. It’s always been worth it for me!

Otherwise, it’s back home you go! You will be discharged by your nurse, which, like everything else, can take anywhere from ten minutes to an hour, in my experience. Discharging includes home care instructions, information on your diagnosis, and any prescriptions you might need. Be sure to also request records of any tests you received, so that you can show them to your primary doctor and have them added to your medical file.

ERs are overwhelming places. Sometimes fear of them will keep people from going at all. However, if it could be a medical emergency, you need to make sure you get it checked. It’s never silly to go if you are unsure of a severe pain or of a mystery symptom that concerns you, especially if your doctor is unreachable. And if it’s a critical emergency, never hesitate to call 911 and get an ambulance, as it is always the safest and fastest way to get to the nearest hospital. I’ve arrived at the hospital by ambulance and by my own transportation: sometimes, it was out of my control entirely as I wasn’t the one calling the shots, but other times when I could make my own decisions, I never hesitated to go by ambulance if it was my best bet. Don’t be afraid to call one, despite the possible expense, because it can make all the difference in your situation—some counties even cover the cost of an ambulance for this very reason (mine does!).

Hopefully, you will never need this advice. But if one day you do, you now know how to be prepared and make it just a little bit easier.

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Suing Your Landlord (aka Beating The Man: Part II)

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We’ve all experienced a landlord, employer, contractor, etc., who has not held up their end of a bargain—withholding money from you simply because there’s no real incentive to pay. It’s frustrating, and once you’ve exhausted the VERY PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE EMAILS, there’s not much to do besides take legal action, which can seem more daunting than it’s worth. But if you have the stamina and sufficient proof for it, and especially if you have an ongoing Beating the Man blog series, suing someone is a surprisingly navigable—and if I may say so, awfully satisfying— adventure.

photo

Let me begin by saying that I adored my wonderful little tenement apartment in the Lower East Side since early 2009 when I (and UE contributor Emmy Yu) moved in. It was a tiny place with a huge private patio, on what is arguably the best block in Manhattan, not that I’m biased. My long-term plan was for my boyfriend to move in with me, turning the two-bedroom into a one-bedroom with a living room. Then we would live there probably forever, eventually befriending the owner and quietly purchasing the entire 5-story building from him/her for a scandalously low rate.

In December of 2012, my building was sold and my dream along with it: the new management company told me they were going to raise my rent $850 (36%) per month, and no, they wouldn’t budge on that. This is legal, by the way, if you live in a non-rent-controlled or rent-stabilized apartment in New York, and the raise remains below the designated market rate.

I made preparations to move out and got my things in order, including taking care of some shady “late fees” amounting to $770 that had been thrown onto my account. This is something the former landlord used to do for kicks—a few hundred dollars would accumulate on my bill, then I would call them to protest and they would quickly say “Oops!,” tossing their hair impishly (I imagined), then drop the charges. But because the old management company was pretty much checked out in anticipation of the sell, I couldn’t reach anyone regarding the bogus charges—known as arrears in real estate-speak—and when the building was sold, my arrears were transferred to the new management company without any documentation (because there wasn’t any to begin with).

A months-long series of conversations and emails of bank statements (to prove rent payment) with a representative from the new management company ended with her CFO not budging on returning the $770, and it was withheld from the security deposit that they finally sent me. “Looks like I’ll be taking you guys to court,” I said, without any idea what that really entailed. “My boss says ‘go right ahead,’” responded the rep. Not wanting to back down, I was determined to follow through on whatever it was I had just threatened to do. So I did what any grown-up would do: I Googled “suing someone.”

My reliable friend the Internet led me to this helpful site, about filing small claims suits in New York State. I planned to go to the District Court on Canal Street one morning before work, but the night before I intended to file, I discovered some fine print on the District Court site that said I had to file in the county of the defendant. And since the company is based out of Great Neck, NY, that meant filing in the Nassau County court…. in Hempstead, NY. I realized then why the CFO had called my bluff. This was much farther than Canal Street.

Not to be intimidated by inconvenience, I woke up around 6:00 the next morning and headed to the train station, where I hopped on an hour-long Long Island Railroad train to Hempstead and walked to the District Court building from the station. I made sure to save all of my travel receipts so I could amend the final amount on my court date (which you can do, or at least request, on the day of). Inside, at the small claims office, they handed me a very basic form to file a small claims (under $5000) complaint. I handed it back, paid the $15 filing fee, and was assigned a court date for about a month later. Easy peasy. I walked back to the station, jumped on a train back to the city, and headed to work.

My court date was ultimately pushed back another month when I realized that I should have included the LLC associated with my particular building in addition to the management company. Typically, when you mail a rent check, it’s to the LLC for your particular building and not to the larger management company that handles the buildings it owns. That way, it’s easier for the larger company to avoid liability (“We didn’t know! We don’t deal with individual tenants!”). I was able to amend the complaint over the phone and the small claims office pushed the date back so they could send an updated summons to the now-two defendants.

I called my aunt and uncle (both lawyers) to ask their advice regarding court and to gauge my chances. They told me that New York courts tended to be tenant-friendly, but I should bring everything just in case. And fortunately, having inherited the hoarding gene, I had everything: the original lease from 2009 (detailing the late policy), the original inspection form, proof of every rent payment in the form of bank statements, and photos of the apartment, in addition to every email correspondence I’d had with the evil management company.

On the day of the court appearance, I brought my small mountain of documentation with me on the train, and I showed up at 9:00 for my 9:30 summons. From the crowd of people milling around a signup sheet outside my assigned courtroom, I gathered that there were about 30 cases all scheduled for that morning. I took note of the number listed next to my name and grabbed a seat in the courtroom, which looked pretty much like a conventional courtroom: 10 or so rows of benches, a long desk in the front, and a judge’s stand behind that. I realized then that the people filling the seats in all those Law & Order court scenes are just pending plaintiffs and defendants, listening patiently to Detective Benson’s gallant summations until their turn to see the judge. I looked around for my defendant.

A clerk took attendance by number. If the defendant and plaintiff were both present, he sent them down to a mediation room, where an arbitrator would help them come to a settlement. If both sides couldn’t come to a settlement, then the case would be sent back up to the judge to decide after each pled their case. When the clerk called my number, I raised my hand, but no one from the management company was there, so he pushed my case to “second call” and moved down the list. I had an in-case-of-boredom novel I brought open in front of me, but hardly glanced at it; there’s something bizarrely intriguing about hearing the various disputes people have with each other. The clerk was patient but clearly trying to move as briskly as possible through the cases, occasionally (to my suppressed glee) sniping at someone for talking out of turn or not answering his question properly.

He assured us that we would go through the second call before having to sit through trials of failed mediations. This meant that if a rep from the management company didn’t show up by the time my case was called again, the case would be called an “inquest” and the judgment would be defaulted to me provided that I could prove the amount owed. Sure enough, my name came around again and no one had showed up. I can’t say that I wasn’t a little disappointed not to open a can of dossier whoop-ass, but I would get a chance to present to the judge nonetheless. I handed the clerk a paystub listing the arrear amount, which he passed up to the judge. Because they were trying to get through all the inquests before the lunch break, neither inquired any further into my case or asked for any additional proof. So I wasn’t sure how understanding they would be, especially because I didn’t get a chance to really explain my case, but when the clerk handed me an envelope to self-address for the judgment, he commented, “You have a lot of enthusiasm, young lady.”

A week later, I received a judgment in my favor for the full amount, plus interest and travel fees, and I did a little jig. But it would be another month before I actually saw any money. The company tried to delay paying me in every way possible; first telling me they were trying to reschedule the hearing because their rep had to go to a funeral, and then just flat-out ignoring my calls. Too stingy to hire a marshal, I conjured up that ingrained skill of all youngest children—the great power to annoy. I began calling about once an hour every day, often repeatedly until I could hear the gratifying click of them manually hanging up on me. It took them a week to realize that they would rather pay $800 than deal with me any longer, and when they did, a check appeared in the mail.

… And you can, too! By now, you’ve realized that anyone with Internet access and the willingness to be a total thorn can file a suit if they feel financially wronged. I highly recommend it, as nothing feels better than sweet, sweet justice, except maybe depositing an $800 check. Here’s some advice if you do take action against a company: Save everything— receipts, forms, leases, take-out napkins. Be vigilant. Be very, very, very, very irritating. Bullshit your way to the finish line (everything is Googleable), and remember that confidence—even if preemptive—will help sway the powers that be onto your side. And always bring a book.

Stay tuned for the next installment of “Beating The Man,” in which I try to sneak into the bathroom at The Four Seasons.* Succeed… or die!!

*JK

Travel

Rob Me

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There are certain aspects of my life where I’ve been pretty lucky. I’ve managed never to break a bone or have a cavity, I went to a great university despite being an unapologetically lackluster student in high school, and hell, today I flew cross-country for a job interview only to find myself in the TSA screening line behind the very person I was traveling to meet.  But there is one place that luck seems to elude me (and it’s not my dating life, for those of you who read this site regularly)—it’s that people love to mug me.

Photo by Meaghan Morrison

That is not a statement you can write if you’ve only been mugged once. I’ve been pickpocketed in Manila, held at knifepoint in New York, and punched out in both Baltimore and Los Angeles. Having been mugged or otherwise robbed four times means, clearly, I’m doing something wrong. Word to the wise: if you don’t want to get your ass kicked and become intimately familiar with the practice of replacing the entire contents of your wallet, don’t be named Kyle. I hear that works pretty well.

MANILA

The Philippines, beautiful as it may be, is insanely dangerous. In the south, there are al Qaeda–affiliated terrorist groups who like to kidnap tourists; in the north, there was a military coup three weeks after I left town. Before college I was there visiting my great-uncle, and near the end of my trip he pulled me aside and told me I needed to “truly experience Manila.” My options were to go with him to a brothel so he could “make sure I left as a man,” or to go see what is regarded as a cultural hallmark of the Philippines, a cockfight. Telling my girlfriend back home that “it’s not cheating because my uncle made me do it” was not a thing I wanted try, so I figured watching chickens fight to the death was slightly safer.

We were dropped off at what can only be described as the shadiest arena ever built: this place looked like a dilapidated tennis stadium coated in a centuries worth of grime and chicken shit. Inside, all the seats had been removed and a crowd of nearly a thousand men (no women allowed) surrounded a fighting pit the size of a boxing ring. About halfway through the third bout, I felt something rubbing against me and looked down to see a hand stealthily trying to slip my wallet out of my pocket.

Looking back, I realize I made a few mistakes: aside from going to what is without a doubt the most dangerous place I’ve ever been in my life, the bigger mistake was the spectacle my uncle and I made upon our entrance. Two people getting out of a chauffeured car and leaving a bodyguard at the door is a bit conspicuous. Add in the fact that I’m a head taller and significantly paler than the rest of the crowd, and it starts to make a little sense why I was targeted. When traveling, it’s wonderful to get a true sense of the local culture, but if you stray from traditional tourist destinations, be careful not to bring the tourist vibe with you. There is something to be said for the theory that you’re safer when you blend in with the herd.

NEW YORK

In the fall of my first semester at NYU, the oppressive summer heat had started to give way to the welcome crispness of autumn, and it felt like a great day for a walk around my new city. There I was, minding my own business, listening to a mixtape from my then long distance girlfriend (yes, the same one I didn’t want to piss off in Manila), when a guy started yelling at me that I had bumped into him and broken some glassware he’d just bought.

I can be oblivious at times, but even in my own world listening to some awful Feist mashup that I thought captured the depth and complexity of “love” at age 18, I was fucking positive that I wasn’t responsible for the random shards of glass that this guy was claiming I broke. I protested, and that’s when he got more aggressive and flashed a knife at me. Bear in mind: this is mid-afternoon on 14th Street, and somehow I happened to be on the one block that was completely deserted. For those of you not familiar with Manhattan, finding a deserted stretch of 14th Street at any hour is like winning the lottery three weeks in a row—except, instead of becoming a millionaire, I lost the money I’d intended to use on a fake ID.

The lesson was to not fight it. At the end of the day, nobody robbing you really wants to hurt you: it’s just an intimidation tactic. While it sucks, giving up a little cash is the easiest way to ensure you stay safe and get the whole process over more quickly. That being said, if you plan on walking or taking public transit a lot in a major city, it’s best not to carry large amounts of cash on you. Most places take cards nowadays and paying a few extra ATM fees is better than getting stabbed or losing a hundred bucks in one fell swoop.

LOS ANGELES/BALTIMORE

One of the dumber things I’ve failed to learn in my life is that bad neighborhoods are bad neighborhoods for a reason. That’s not meant to seem like this privileged half-white kid from Malibu is afraid of minorities (after all, I am one); it’s more to point out that walking down a block filled with burned-out buildings in a sketchy part of Baltimore or trying to score some tacos at 3 am in a park known for LA’s May Day Melée is probably a really stupid idea.

Both of these instances have one major thing in common—drinking. An analysis of my drinking habits would likely necessitate another article, or bloat this current one past a length my editors would be willing to publish, but the thing to glean from this is that having one too many makes you an easy target. When sober, I’m pretty vigilant, but while drinking (and I don’t think I’m alone in this) I tend to get a little more reckless. Typically, this means I make ill-advised decisions with my phone or possibly earn some “constructive criticism,” but other times it means I go to iffy areas and mistakenly think everything will work out fine.

The easiest way not to get mugged is to not put yourself in a spot where that is likely to happen. If you wouldn’t go to a place during the daytime, you certainly shouldn’t go there at night, especially alone. Exploring new neighborhoods is often exciting, but what might be intended as a night of edgy fun can quickly take a turn from hipsterrific-dream to manic-pixie-nightmare. If you’re going to an unfamiliar place, don’t make it even less familiar by over imbibing. Nothing screams “rob me” like a drunk person who won’t remember the street corner they’re on in the morning, let alone their mugger’s face.

The brutal reality is that if you live in a highly concentrated urban area, you have to deal with the dangers that come with it. There’s nothing I can impart in this article that will ensure you never get mugged. While the act itself does feel violating, the key is to remember it could be worse: if you manage to get out unscathed physically, it’s a win. Usually nothing in your wallet or purse is irreplaceable, and it certainly isn’t worth putting yourself in danger. For those of us who feel that inexplicable draw of the big city, a hefty dose of common sense and responsibility goes a long way. And if that fails, just avoid hanging out with me at night.

Brainfood

Help Me Understand: The Government Shutdown

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The government’s shut down (well, sort of). From politicians to pundits, everyone’s squawking, but no one is doing a particularly good job explaining what the heck actually happened. I hear “continuing resolution” and “debt ceiling” being thrown around, and apparently they’re not the same thing? I took American Gov and I paid attention, but this thing is just a mess.

Photo by Elise Walsh

Photo by Elise Walsh

In my attempt to be a decent citizen, I figured educating myself was the least I could do.

The Plan

GOP conservatives never liked Obamacare, so they held a meeting shortly after Obama was elected for a second term to see what they could do about it. Led by former Attorney General Edwin Meese III, he and other high-profile conservative leaders signed a coalition letter declaring their intent to defund Obamacare before it was “too late.”

This plan finally came into effect on Friday, September 20th, when the House, led by Speaker John Boehner, voted for a “continuing resolution” (more on this in a minute) that included a provision to eliminate all financing for the Affordable Care Act (Obamacare’s legal name). A couple days later while the bill moved through the Senate, we got to hear Republican Senator Ted Cruz talk for 21 hours and 19 minutes about how Obamacare “takes our freedom away,” with some side anecdotes about White Castle burgers and Dr. Seuss’ Green Eggs and Ham. Then, a week after the House vote, the Senate having “considered” the bill, threw it back to the House with the defunding provision removed.

They went back and forth a couple more times, the House tacking on a defunding measure, the Senate sending it back without the defunding measure, and then it was October 1st, and the government shut down.

So what’s a continuing resolution and why is it important?

A Continuing Resolution

While it’s the President’s job to submit a budget proposal by the first Monday in February, it’s up to Congress to actually agree upon said budget and then spend the money. Theoretically, each year both houses must pass a dozen appropriations bills by October 1st that the President agrees to sign.

But this is Congress we’re talking about and it’s hard to agree on things, so a continuing resolution basically allows the government to keep funding its departments, agencies, and programs for a limited time in the amount that was already agreed upon from the previous budget. This way, representatives can work out their differences and pass a “real” spending bill. It’s kind of like two-step verification: Congress has to vote on the budget and agree to spend $620 million dollars on the Department of Defense, but then in order for the DoD employee’s (AKA most of the military) to actually get paid, Congress needs to specifically “appropriate” the funds. And just to give you some perspective: Congress hasn’t passed a balanced budget since 2001. We’ve had almost 50 CRs since then.

There are those hoping that the House will pass a “clean” CR—which essentially means a continuing resolution without an added policy change (like the provision defunding Obamacare)—but I’m not gonna hold my breath.

So, then what the heck is the debt ceiling and why does it feel like the same thing? Well, it turns out that it’s just one big coincidence and some really bad luck that our current budget expires on October 1st and we will hit the debt ceiling on October 17th.

The Debt Ceiling

The debt ceiling (or the debt limit) is basically a cap on the amount of money issued by the Treasury. First used in 1917, the idea was that a limit would help keep the President accountable for the money he spent (which in practice may not be true.) Raising the debt ceiling simply allows the government to borrow money from itself to pay for the things it’s already bought.

The key thing to remember is that the government has already spent the money. It’s like having a $200 credit card bill and only $187 in your bank account. The government gets to borrow the extra $13 dollars from itself by “raising” the debt ceiling. If we default (AKA we don’t raise it), it means we’re not paying our bills.

But this should not be confused with the budget deficit: the budget deficit subtracts the cost of running a country from the revenues it brings in each year. In 2013, the government spent $3.803 trillion, but only made $2.902 trillion leaving us a deficit of $901 billion. Our nation’s debt takes into account the previous deficits, which currently amounts to about $16.7 trillion.

To Sum Up

The GOP wanted to take a stand against Obamacare and, according to New York Magazine, they were originally going to do this with the debt ceiling, but switched gears after Ted Cruz’s stunt and went from threatening a default to shutting down the government instead. The government is shut down (which costs money) because the House and the Senate could not pass a continuing resolution and this display of “non-bipartisanship” has, thanks to bad timing, put us on the precipice of defaulting as well.

And that, my friends, is politics.

Extra Credit: While January 1st used to be the beginning of each fiscal year, in 1842 for reasons unknown, they changed it to July 1st, a date that was again moved in 1974 to our current due date of October 1st.

Health

My Emergency Pap Smear

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Pap smears suck. It’s ingrained in women from the time they even hear such a thing exists. “They’re gonna do what, to that?!” Admittedly, I put off getting my first one done for a long time; I figured I’d think about it when I became sexually active. But, then again, I wasn’t quite expecting that my first one would be in the ER.

Photo by Meaghan Morrison

One day during the summer a few years ago, I had come down with really bad abdominal pain on the right side. Like excruciatingly bad. It felt like someone stabbing my ovary from the inside. Based on location, I figured it was some kind of “female issue,” so I went home, took to my bed with a heating pad, and popped a couple Advil. Thankfully it went away after a few hours. Just in case, I still called my local hospital’s advice nurse the next day and, after being asked in six different ways if I could be pregnant (“Not unless it was an immaculate conception.”), she said it was most likely an ovarian cyst. She instructed me to go to the ER if the pain came back, in case she was wrong or it burst. I didn’t bother making an OB/GYN appointment and the pain stayed away, so I assumed the cyst had shrunk on its own.

A few months later I woke up to the exact same excruciating pain. This time it wouldn’t go away so my poor dad—being the only other person home—drove me to the ER. After much waiting (the usual ER fun) and not one, but two different nurses going “OMG, you’ve never had sex! Never?!” (thankfully my dad was in the waiting room), I got to see the doctor. A male, of course. He proceeded to poke and prod the painful area, “Does this hurt, how about here, what if I do this?” Um, yes to all of the above!

I don’t remember the exact order of events but he did an ultrasound and at some point decided I needed a pelvic exam (because obviously all the poking on the outside of my abdomen wasn’t enough). Cue the remaining nurse gawking at me, saying “OMG, you’ve never had a pap smear?!” Yes, thanks a lot, lady. But then she did take it down a notch and attempted to comfort me by saying it wasn’t a big deal, I was actually the right age to get my first one. So the sadist doctor proceeded to poke around from literally both angles, which hurt much more than just poking on the outside. Between that and the slightly terrifying-looking black spot that showed up on my ovary during the ultrasound, he determined that it was a cyst. But, just in case, he decided that he still should do an actual pap smear. Best part? His attempt at consolation: “Well at least down here we use the plastic tools, they’re much better than the metal ones the OBs have!” Really?! How does he know what is more comfortable down there?

Luckily, the actual pap smear itself was quick and easy (after you’ve had a cyst poked at from all sides, everything is easy). I left with a prescription for painkillers and, oh joy, an appointment with an actual OB/GYN for yet another pap smear a week later. Fortunately, the cyst shrank significantly in that week. I found out later that when cysts don’t shrink on their own, they can burst and/or surgery is needed.

My second pap smear was as fine as a pap smear can be, I suppose. And here’s a fun fact: metal and plastic tools feel pretty much the same (or at least, to me they did!). I haven’t had a cyst since my gynecologist prescribed birth control, and hopefully won’t ever need another emergency room pap smear. But the one good thing that came from this experience? Pap smears no longer intimidate me. Take that, obstetrics!