I love the Academy Awards. Well, no. I love fancy dresses and George Clooney, and the Oscars are always chock full of both. Speaking of- George? You are now officially too old for an ironic haircut (please tell me you think that look is funny, PLEASE). Alert Brad Pitt as well.
I’m going over some red carpet photos right now and here are my first impressions (though not discussed at length with Kristen or Mark and are therefore subject to change). I’m following E!’s slideshows right now.
Matt Damon: Comb your hair, you’re at the Academy Awards.
Penelope Cruz: Always breathtakingly gorgeous. This woman was destined for red carpet couture.
Keanu Reeves: His look might work if he wasn’t at the Academy Awards. What is it with guys who make a living being good looking not looking good at major events celebrating said living? Though to be fair, Keanu is a terribly handsome, terribly bad actor.
Maggie Gyllenhaal: Just stepped off a Carnival Cruise.
Helen Mirren: I would kill for her rack at 24, never mind 64.
Robert Downey Jr: Again, people. The Academy Awards. Not to be trifled with, although cute bowtie.
Demi Moore: Dress was very lovely, though the same color as her skin. Her expressionless, vacant, very taut skin.
George Clooney: Sigh. Nice jacket, bad side part. Also, was his date outfitted by David’s Bridal?
Taylor “Team Jacob” Lautner: Finally, the first fella to take this Oscars arrival business seriously. I’m going to go out on a limb and state he looks better than George Clooney. And we all know how much I love me some gray hair.
Charlize Theron: Might be pretty in another color. Those rosettes on the bosom were a little unexpected but still kind of cute, and the fitted skirt is bangin’.
Cameron Diaz: Prom dress, gross hair, kind of a suburban-Mississippi Hyatt Hotel beauty pageant contestant thing going on. Nice arms though.
Sandra Bullock: Amazing. Classic. Super shiny hair. Loved every second of her look. One of my favorite Oscars dresses of all time.
Meryl Streep: Age appropriate, sexy, glamorous.
Quentin Tarantino: You did the best you could with what you have.
Diane Kruger: Weird dress, but it works. Kind of like Quentin.
Ryan Reynolds: Homecoming King of the Oscars. Also looked better than George Clooney.
Kate Winslet: I love you, girl, but your dress kind of looks like a pantsuit.
Kristen Stewart: Beautiful. Did not see that coming.
Jennifer Lopez: I laughed out loud. Looks like a Barbie evening gown from 1989.
Sarah Jessica Parker: Nearly perfect, except the neck thing. Makeup was a little intense too, but overall pretty cute.
Rachel McAdams: Really pretty lines on her gown, but again with the cruise ship themed-fabric! Also, she looks different every time I see her. Also, I hated The Notebook and I’m confessing that here.
Tina Fey: Sassy! Hair was a little weird, but girlfriend has style, y’all. I love her.
Nicole Ritche: Adorable, non-Gollum look for her. I totally like her (based on her Twitter page and red carpet photos).
Joel Madden: Not someone I would normally comment on, because I think he looks so thuggish, even when he’s not trying to. But wow! Dude cleans up nice!
Miley Cyrus: Shoulders back, girlfriend, we can see your collarbone without the slouching. You looked cuter last year.
Vera Farmiga: I kind of loved that frilly pink thing.
Elizabeth Banks: Also wouldn’t typically comment because she strikes me as vaguely trashy, but I liked her look. Very Hollywood. Also I love her character on 30 Rock.
Zac Efron: Why are you there? Nice tux, bad hair. Get a comb, amigo.
Amanda Seyfried: Lovely, especially the neckline and hemline, although the dress looks a little bubble wrap-y.
Anna Kendrick: J’adore.
Mariah Carey: Almost managed to not be trampy. Almost.
Mariska Hargitay: Why does she get invited? Because she always looks so good. Might have liked her dress in something other than black, but still so pretty.
Kind of a boring year, only a few OMG looks. I remember last year being a little more exciting in terms of fashion, but there’s still tomorrow, when the worst dressed lists come out. What were your favorites?
I follow politics. Or rather, I live with someone who follows politics, so every nuanced caveat of every single major bill in Congress is a blockbuster Imax JAWS kind of moment in my household. Brian looks at Gwen Ifill like other guys check out centerfolds. If Jon Stewart has said it, he’s heard it and repeated it to me. I hear about everything going on in Washington. I know what’s up, is all I’m trying to say.
With that in mind, I just wanted to review some facts with you people. In December of 2009, I packed up all of my personal effects, cat and aforementioned CSPAN junkie and moved to California. I quit my job, too. Bold move, I’d say, during a recession. We’d saved enough money to live on in the event I didn’t find work right away. We left our family, our friends, all of our non-material life back there in Boston and have been partying it up, CA-style for the last 2 months. We started getting our ducks in a row fairly recently, doing adult things like applying for jobs and whatnot. One thing We both made sure to do was apply for health insurance through Anthem Blue Cross, a large heath-insurance provider here in the Golden State. I bet you know where this is going.
I have seasonal allergies, treated over the counter. I’ve never had an irregular pap smear. I have never been pregnant. I have never broken a bone. No clubbed feet, no genetic disorders, no weird skin rashes, no STDs. I get 2 pretty major sinus infections a year, which generally lead to two epic yeast infections, from the antibiotics, treated over the counter if possible (totally normal behavior, for those of you without a vagina or a sensitivity to penicillin). I’ve been diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder and clinical depression, treated with therapy and medication for the last 2 or so years. Estimated numbers of Americans treated with this same disease are somewhere between 14.5 million and 20 million, according to the National Institute of Mental Health (estimates including undiagnosed or untreated sufferers double). I’m in good company, healthwise, is what I’m getting across here.
I was quoted by Anthem at about $70 per month. Reasonable, for generic coverage and low-level doctor visits. I filled out my medical history to the best of my knowledge, and waited. I’d stocked up on my meds before I left, so there was no real rush, assuming I didn’t find any lumps in my breast or fetuses in my uterus. I got a phone call about a week after I applied, with a nurse asking me about basic gynecological questions (endometriosis, controlled and treated since ‘05) and it was no big deal. Then I heard from Rose, an RN for Anthem, about a week after that. She had a list of every single prescription drug I’d been on in the last 7 years. I’m not a hypochondriac or anything, but I get the occasional UTI, yeast infection, sinus infection, ear infection, whatevs. Nothing too extreme for a person with allergies 3 seasons strong. I had to give an explanation for every single instance of prescription drug use I’d had over the last seven years. Yeah, okay, like I remember taking amoxcillin my freshman year of college. So I gave her as detailed a rundown as I could remember, the cause for every script for hydrocortisone, fluconazole, nasal decongestants, everything I could remember. I explained to her what lichen sclerosus was and why I was undergoing treatment for it. We got down and dirty in my mental health history, going over the handful of drugs I’d tried to convince my brain that, yes, if you get out of bed this morning, things will be okay.
Around that phone call, Brian received his adjusted quote from Anthem’s underwriting team, saying his payments jumped from $58 to $198 based upon his medical history. In the 7 years we’d been together, Brian has been on prescription drugs once that I can remember- a stint with the skin-clearing Acutane for his really vivid acne problem. This single instance of prescription drug use caused his premium to almost quadruple. I started to worry that I’d never find coverage for less than like, maybe $600 a month.
My fears were unfounded. I should have worried instead that I couldn’t find coverage at all. Anthem rejected my application based on my mental health history, as well as “repetitive yeast infection occurrence.” They gave me some guidelines on when to reapply:
Anxiety/depression must be stable, with only 5 visits in the last 12 months and 1 visit in the last 3 months (in my experience, I’ve had to meet for psychopharm evaluations every 6-8 weeks to monitor the effects of my meds) (also, what does “stable” anxiety or depression mean? Isn’t that the problem, that you’re notstable?!).
Must also be sign, symptom and treatment free from the yeast infection for 3 to 6 months.
I’m lucky, in that my father is gainfully employed at a company with decent insurance, and recent laws insist that parents can cover their kids up to age 25 under their employer’s policy. He got up in that this morning, and I can go back to having anxiety attacks in shopping malls and vaginal discharge with reckless abandon.
But, during this period of depression, recession, whatever you want to call it, many people aren’t so lucky. Many sick people aren’t so lucky. Many people who need the help. Wanting health care reform doesn’t mean I want to tax the rich (even though I totally do) or take handouts from people who aren’t willing to give them. I’m not a socialist. I just want to pay a reasonable amount each month for a corporation to underwrite my already-unaffordable healthcare.
Sure, I’m depressed. Sure, my vagina sometimes gets a mind of her own. These aren’t uncommon, incurable diseases that pose significant financial risk to a trillion dollar industry. A pap smear costs $500, and women are supposed to get them once a year. If I could afford that without the help of corporate hacks, I’d try to find a way, trust me. Basic, non emergent healthcare is expensive, and throw in a chronic disease here and there and you’re bankrupt.
I’m also not asking for a public option (although I’d welcome it with chocolate, roses and kisses). I’m not asking for the government to support my unpredictable serotonin levels, I’m asking for them to tell a company that they can’t take advantage of me anymore, then drop me like I’m hot when the going gets tough.
Ignorance is bliss for so many Americans. So many of us are content to believe rumors death panels and listen to whatever Glenn Beck or Sarah Palin spout. It’s easy to have others make significant decisions for us. But, we all get older. We have to give birth (many insurance policies do not cover maternity care, or view pregnancy as a pre-existing condition), our vision goes, we get moles, we get arthritis. We need help paying for the expense of a satisfying lifespan. This is just not right.
So, Internet. Do me a favor, and yourself a favor too, and do some research into what all of this means for you. What this will mean for you, as you sire children with problematic tonsils or worse. What this will mean for you as you get older and your body or mind fails you. If you lose a close family member and fall into a dark hole you can’t climb out of. Our lives, our health, our physical and mental well-being, are being made into a commodity by a company without much medical authority. Please join me in the battle to remedy this problem. Reform is necessary, we’re losing our chance.
Went hiking with Brian again today. Some redwood forest in Oakland, chock full of babbling brooks, muddy patches and unexpected hills. Muscles are crackling with lactic acid right now.
“Oh my god, Wendy, wow, this yogurt is snow day good.”
“Harriet, this right here is statutory good.”
“Let’s see… this is open bar good.”
“Harriet, this is definitely post-Brazilian Percocet good.”
“Hmmm. This is, ahhhh, cash-in-the-laundry good.”
“Nah, this is more like hung jury good.”
“This is… swimming with dolphins good!”
“This is… sex at Sea World with that stevedore good.”
“This is Jason Mraz’s VH1 Storytellers good.”
“This is Sammy Hagar’s bus good.”
“I got it, I got it, this, this here is cookie dough in the microwave good.”
“This is deep-fried edible panties good.”
“This is shirtless Rafael Nadal good.”
“Harriet, this is watching Nadal with a fucking belt around my neck good. This is grifting foreign guys at Epcot Center good. This is blackmailing Bret Michaels good. This is falsifying the results of a pregnancy test and telling your married boss he knocked you up and you need $500 quick and then spending that money to fly to Las Vegas for Joe Francis’s birthday party at the Palms and then ratting your boss out to HR for plundering the petty cash good.”
“Mr. Yakuza? You know last week they found his… Nevermind. You know what? You know what, Wendy? This is Mark Wahlberg in an Aspen Jacuzzi feeding you chocolate-covered strawberries good. Remember, the altitude heightens sensations…”
“Girl, please. This is Mark Wahlberg’s fingers in Fear good. This is Mark Wahlberg’s abs after he got out of prison for robbing a pharmacy good. This is Donnie Wahlberg and Danny Wood and me in the handicapped bathroom of a Claire’s Accessories at the Forest Grove Mall circa 1989 good.”
When I started to tell people I was moving to San Francisco, they invariably wanted to know why I felt like picking up all my junk and sending it across the country. I didn’t have much of a reason I could articulate, except that I had visited and really liked it. That visit came to an end a year ago this weekend, and here I am, in a falling-apart-apartment just outside of San Francisco. And now that I’m starting to think of this place as home, I’m getting more excited by the day to spend more time exactly where I am.
In the last month and a half, I have a whole slew of reasons to live here. The weather, the food, the people, the scenery, the weather, the lack of snow and humidity, the weather…I could go on and on. We’ve just had so much to do here, so many things to see, and the “to-do” list of activities keeps getting longer.
This weekend was jam-packed full of NorCal fun. Saturday, Brian got a gig playing background music at the Noe (“no-ee”, not “no”) Valley Farmer’s Market. Going over the bridge to get into the city, the fog was the worst I’d seen it so far, but cleared up the second the bridge ended. We zipped into Noe Valley and found some parking at the top of a steep hill (are there any other kind here?). This was a neighborhood that I hadn’t explored yet, so I was pleased to fly solo, to be free to touch every single dress in every single store I went into (which I did). I found this cute little number for a whopping $11 (original price tag read $135):
In and out of stores I went, happily trying on hats and looking at the soles of shoes until it was time to find Brian again. I sat in the sunshine reading my book until he was done, then sampled a billion different kinds of almonds at the market (flavored almonds are huge here). We had to head home after that, because the lovely Colleen was coming over for dinner. If you remember, she’s the incredibly patient and generous high school friend of Ma and Pa Bergeron who put us up when we moved here. Our dead-ringer-for-Axl-Rose building manager, Joel, was in our apartment when we got home, tearing apart our ceiling after the epic leak that took out my Book Nook. During his little demolition derby, he noticed the ceiling in the lobby, directly below our kitchen, was dripping water (ah glorious antique plumbing). At this point, we’re waist-deep in lasagna dishes with company coming, plaster chunks all over our apartment, with stacks of books all over the place. And now we can’t do dishes (still can’t, apparently. Our lobby has abut 6 buckets full of gray water scattered across it). We powered through, sent Joel upstairs with a plate and had a great time with Colleen. It’s rare to spend time with friends of your parents without your parents there, you know?
Sunday we had plans. Big, Lunar New Year plans. Unfortunately, apparently nothing happens on the actual Lunar New Year in SF’s Chinatown, all the fun stuff goes down either before or after, so we were just left to wander in and out of the shops selling Mao trading cards and coolie hats (not such a bad way to spend a few hours, especially if you’re into swords). The day had started out rather foggy but cleared right up after some coffee/pastry extravaganza in North Beach.After my nerves wore to a fray from all the Chinese firecrackers, we headed over to Hayes Valley for some mid-afternoon relaxing in Alamo Square. This has become one of my favorite spots in the city, with a 360-degree view of San Francisco. It had warmed up to about 70 degrees, so we pulled a blanket out of the trunk and got totally drunk on sunshine. After about an hour, we stumbled down to the Beanbag Cafe, on Divisadero for an early supper. We’d overheard some chatter about a city-wide pillowfight down on the Embarcadero later on, so after we finished our delightful meal, we drove down to the piers to kill some time before that shit went down.There’s only so much time you can spend dodging baby carriages, so we were glad when 5:30 rolled around so we could head over to the Ferry Bulding area for the pillow fight. We weren’t sure what to expect, it being a public affair without pajamas or basements or scary movies on pause in the background. Turns out, arena pillow fighting is pretty much exactly what you’d expect:
All in all, lots of fun, good company, great weather. Come visit me soon, friends!
Valentine’s Day is one of my favorite holidays. There is little I love more than to watch people who have no reason to be bitter be bitter. Unless you have a really hard time finding someone you love- affectionately, sisterly/brotherly, platonic, BFFL, whatever- then quit the bitching. I don’t really get why it has become a platform for woe, even from people with significant others. I don’t think I’ve ever had an epically romantic Valentine’s Day (or even a moderately cute one?) and I’ve been in the same relationship for 7 years.Talk about a reason to be bitter!
I’m beginning to wonder if the people who “hate” V-Day are just the ones who feel left out of it. I bring it up only because that bulletin board of life’s misery, my Facebook News Feed, has been blighted by anti-heart-shaped-candy sentiment. Is it because the holiday is propagated by corporate hacks (I don’t hear this grumbling the week leading up to Mother’s Day) or because you hate red (except at the holiest of insincere holidays, Christmas) or because you are single and want nothing more than a taller, more handsome, younger Woody Allen hero (good luck) to sweep you off your feet? I mean, I’m not Jewish, but I don’t begrudge the chosen peeps their Hanukkah.
In all seriousness, I don’t really pay much attention to the day. Maybe a card, or something, but no major celebrating goes on here. I’d rather Brian be romantic without the Valentine-shaped training wheels than have him have opportunities for cuteness dropped in his lap. Valentine’s Day is never the Most Romantic Day of the Year for us, nor do we aspire for that. No heart-shaped pasties in our bedroom, you know what I’m sayin’?
I just don’t understand why people just can’t ignore Valentine’s Day like they might any other holiday they don’t participate in. I’m sure part of it is the fact that it’s everywhere this time of year, but still. I just think both sides blow this day completely out of proportion.
This year we’re going into San Francisco for Chinese New Year on the 14th. The celebration is supposed to be the largest outside China, and little kids in dragon costumes stomping on heads of lettuce really warms the cockles, you know? It’s going to be a fun day with a person that I love, and maybe, if I’m lucky, a little champagne.
Why do you like it? Why do you hate it? Hershey Kisses for everyone!
Other than my ceiling collapse, what’s new with me?
Still jobless, which kind of sucks, since I think Brian is starting to tire of my constant be-slippered presence in our house.
I started running. I know, people. Marie? Cardio? WTF? My preferred form of exercise is yoga, and apparently there aren’t any places looking for dedicated bathroom-swabbers in exchange for free classes that I can find (Boston peeps: Karma Yoga Studio in Harvard Square is always looking for reliable cleaners/desk people in exchange for some free/super cheap yoga classes and gym use. It’s one of the places I miss most, full of great people, great baked goods and all-around positive energy. Patronize!). We went to a class with Alex, a fine young lady I met while training for an SAT-prep gig (coincidentally, she spent some time in Boston and was also a Karma devotee. Small, teeny world!). Anyway, I’m out of shape and my hammies were reminding me of that fact for DAYS after we finished the class. So in the interest of returning to an exercise routine that makes me look good in a bathing suit, I took up the Couch to 5k program I read about over at Whoorl (go! Sarah is cute and awesome!). It’s an interval program, where a guy on a podcast encourages you to go! speed up! slow down! brisk walk! over some really cheeseball club music. Anyway, it’s pretty easy, and I have the time, and also it would be nice to be able to run 3 miles. So, I’m giving it a shot. I’m telling you in the hopes that if I make this knowledge public, someone is going to hold me accountable, say to me, gosh, how’s that running thing going?
We’ve been taking a few day trips here and there, and went to Palo Alto this past week. Such a cute little town, with an absolutely breathakingly awesome bookstore, Bell’s Books (70 years!), where I got this super-cute reusable book bag and a vintage volume of Emily Dickinson:
I love Emily Dickinson, and may, just MAY, get some verses added to my Harper Lee/Sylvia Plath tattoo love fest. 3 Cheers for awesome lady writers! I want to get a Flannery O’Connor one too, girlfriend is working with a theme up in here.
Brian was good about letting me browse the shops there (so many things to touch!) and even made a special pit stop into Anthropologie, where his head didn’t even explode with all the cute/expensive things!
Palo Alto has a lovely little downtown with lots of fun restaurants (try Sprout if you’re there, AMAZING salad). I think it’ll probably become a destination for when we have people come visit. We checked out Stanford University, which didn’t make me long for the hallowed halls of academe like Berkeley does, but sure was pretty:
I did some baking (satisfactory but not stellar blueberry muffins), and am going to attempt another round of homemade pizza crust, sure to make your mouth water.
My goals for this week are to get some artwork up on the walls, and hopefully to get our ceiling replastered. We may get some visitors this weekend too, which would be the absolute tops.
It’s been raining here a lot since we moved in, which I don’t really mind, because, whatever, it could be snow. Rain, psh, NBD, I can handle you. It’s been clear the last few days, but the rain resumed this afternoon, gently but distinctly pattering down our gutters. It’s a noise I’ve gotten very used to over the last 2 weeks, so I didn’t pay much mind when the rain picked up this evening. We were getting ready to relax, watch Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, when the pattering got a little louder and a little less gentle and a little closer. I went out into our hallway to investigate.
One of the more charming parts of our apartment is the end of our hallway. To the right is our bedroom door, ahead is the bathroom and to the left is a little recessed area that I’ve come to know/love as my Book Nook. It’s just the right size for my bookcase, ever-so-lovingly tended by my literary neuroses. Many of my knickknacks are displayed there as well, and you know, it’s just got this whole safe space vibe. You don’t mess with my Book Nook, y’all.
Well. Apparently we had some sort of blocked drain up on the third floor of our apartment building, and rather than rooting it out, the plumber just shoved the blockage down further. Then the guy in 301 (coincidentally the Superintendent, also very redheaded) took a shower, and the apocalypse came raining down on our hallway in the form of our ENTIRE CEILING. I guess drain on the third floor was clear, and draining water had pushed the blockage down enough to where the drain on the second floor tub backed up, and when the tub overflowed, the water leaked through their floor, our ceiling. The plaster got saturated and well…I went out there, wondering if a faucet was dripping and saw water coming out of that light fixture, and thought, oh shit. As I was finishing off the tuh of the t sound, the whole kaboodle just caved right in. I’m ok, my books are for the most part ok, and our managers came by right quick to tell us there was nothing they could do until everything dried out.
The whole time we were bailing out and mopping up and dusting off, we were bright-siding the crap out of this little pickle… at least it didn’t happen later at night, at least we were home when it caved, it’s a good thing the Snuggler wasn’t in her litterbox (much of the plaster actually fell into her poop-zone).
Oh! And one of the management goons apparently is some kind of sexist douchebag (different guy than Bathing Superintendent Ginger Joel). He was pretty nice to me when we moved in, while Brian was off doing some sort of Manly Behavior, like parking the car or controlling the cat or something, he was just a little pandering, a little flirty, but you know, nothing invasive. He was all “Oh, a pretty young lady is moving in here! I’m your handyman guy!” And I was like, great, can you fix all these apartment things underlying message:because I pay rent so that I don’t have to repair light fixtures myself? I asked him to change the knob on the oven, because it was all painted over and you couldn’t read the degrees for the temperature. Brian walked in, and the guy said, and I quote, “oh good, you have a boyfriend, I won’t have to be taking care of you all the time!” But he was pretty good-natured about it, chuckling like, ha, see? I’m so tongue in cheek! I’m a feminist too! And that was the last we saw of him, until I was sloshing around my Book Nook in my rainboots.
Now, my floor was covered in about an inch and a half of used bathwater and I didn’t want to soak my slippers or my sneakers or any of my other, cuter shoes, so I put on my rainboots. Repeat: my hallway was flooded, due to his faulty plumber. I was in my pajamas, no socks, no shoes. My ceiling collapsed before my very eyes, unleashing Superintendent Joel’s BATHWATER into my apartment. And he laughed at me! And told Brian he should get me an Army helmet or a hard hat in case I was too scared to go into the hallway! Like I couldn’t get one for myself! Hell-o, I am totally capable of managing my own safety (hence the rainboots, loser!)(and also, um, I wouldn’t need protective headgear if my ceiling wasn’t collapsing, which is totally beyond my responsibility). Also that I was “so cute” for wearing them (not ’so pioneer wife farmer woman” which I think is more accurate) and that Brian chose well (very true, he may be sexist but the man isn’t blind y’all). The next time that asshole comes around, I’m going to wear a flannel shirt and overalls and toss some slops out the window. Psh.
I probably sound like I’m overreacting, but the guy was just so bewilderingly condescending in our interactions that I was ready to pop him one for making fun of me when again, it was raining bathwater from my ceiling. The ceiling I live under, in the building he’s managing. “Sorry you have to wear your rainboots and slop around in SuperGingerJoel’s soap scum in your hallway, rescuing the books you read and reread and cherish with all your heart” may have been a more appropriate response to the situation.
So, ick. To top it off, our apartment kind of smells like cabbage now, and we’re not sure why. All I can say is that after this little debacle, I think I’m going to calm the nerves by fondling grandma’s tablecloths and antique jam jars at the Alameda Flea Market on Saturday. Maybe find myself a vintage apron so I can at least look cute when I’m barefoot and pregnant, preparing meals for my hunter-gatherer-protector?
