It’s a Nice Day for a White Wedding

So the good news is that I apparently still have mental health coverage.  The bad news is that for some bizarre reason, psychiatrists and psychologists are no longer listed on the insurance company website, so I’m going to have to call a customer service representative and ask him/her to do the online search FOR ME every time I want to look up a potential doctor.

Oh, joy.

A Sternly Worded Letter to My Mother

Dear Madame,

Over the years, you have sent me various contradictory messages.  You raised me on such novels as A Little Princess and These Happy Golden Years, and yet despite all the bereavement in these books and the love for super sweet mourning clothes that it engendered, you would not let me wear black.  “It makes you look sallow,” you said, and told me that if I wanted to look jaundiced that was my business, but you would not be making my authentic Victorian funeral dress.

And yet, you gave me your copy of the complete works of Louisa May Alcott.  Way to send mixed messages, mother.

The Now-Ubiquitous Private Health Insurance Rant by an American

I have bad teeth.  I have some mild birth defects that cause problems (strangely-shaped mouth, thin or non-existent enamel in some crucial places), and I spent most of my childhood getting fillings or buffings or cleanings or SOMETHING.  I am extremely prone to cavities and always will be.  In fact, I’ve been chewing with only one side of my mouth for quite some time because I’m pretty sure one of my molars has a big ol’ hole in it.

I haven’t been to the dentist in over two years because my insurance is accepted by only one doctor in the DC metro area.  One doctor.  And he works an hour away and is not accessible by metro.  I would pay for it out of my own pocket, but at 200 bucks a filling, I can’t do that and still make rent.

Without glasses, I can see clearly for a whopping six inches in front of my face.  I’ve had to have corrective lenses since I was eight years old.  I allegedly have vision insurance that is allegedly accepted by both the optometrists I’ve been to, and yet somehow, I’ve been stuck with the entire bill both times I’ve gone in for an eye appointment since starting this job.

Altogether, I’ve paid 700+ dollars for vision correction in the last two years.  Unlike an ouchy mouth, being unable to see is not something I can just live with.

Since I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) last November, I’ve been taking two medications and going in for a med check once a month.  Altogether, that costs me 40 dollars a month, or 480 dollars a year.  That is not an insurmountable amount of money for someone with my income and living expenses.  I generally think that it’s fair on the part of my insurance company, at least for me in particular.  Until today, although I’ve cursed my company for letting my teeth rot and forcing me to pay out the nose so that I can see, I’ve had no complaints about their mental health coverage.

But today, I went to look up psychiatrists in my area who take my insurance so that my current shrink and I could go over the list and see who didn’t suck (current shrink is retiring).  And guess what?  There were no psychiatrists listed.  That’s right—none.  Not one.  Zip.  Zero.  Zilch.  Nada.

I tried searching psychologists, and the same thing happened.  Nobody.

I tried searching near my work instead of in my home.  No one.

I tried a 20 mile radius instead of a 5-10 mile one.  NOTHING.

Either they have discontinued mental health coverage completely, or they have made it suck so hard that no one in the DC Metro area is willing to take it.  Both of those possibilities are inexcusable.

I am mentally ill.  I do not take these medications to “feel better”: I take these medications in order to function.  This time last year, I was on the verge of quitting my job and moving back in with my parents.  My illness had progressed to the point where I could not sleep, I was not rational, and I was about five seconds away from throwing things at my coworkers and screaming obscenities whenever I had to take my boss’s calls.  I.  HAD.  LOST.  IT.  It was not a question of “feeling blue”:  it was a question of being able to go to work without going to the bathroom once or twice a day for “cry and quietly scream” break.

I take my drugs, I function; I don’t take them, I don’t function.  How, exactly, is it in anyone’s best interest to deprive me of my medication?

More details later.  I’m too tired and too pissed to deal with this today.

Zombie Walk 2009

So this past Saturday, the Boyfriend and I decided to pretend that we aren’t old and went and did something Halloween-related.  Since our roommate was going to a Zombie Walk in Silver Spring, we were all, “Eh, let’s bum off the single person’s cool factor.”

This is what we were bumming off, folks:

 

A “First” We Never Wanted to Have

A couple enters a unisex public bathroom at a metro station in Northern Virginia.  He goes to the urinal, she goes to the toilet.

Him:  Aww, man, this is awkward.

Her:  What?  We pee in front of each other all the time.

Him:  No, I mean–dude, are you SITTING on that toilet?

Her:  Obviously.  What’s the big deal?

Him:  The germs!  My god, the germs!

Her:  Seriously?  SERIOUSLY?  Honey, I’ve been sitting on public toilet seats my entire life–

Him:  DON’T TELL ME THAT!

Her:  –and I’m not dead yet.  What is your problem?  What exactly would you be doing in my situation?

Him:  I’d squat or use one of those paper cover thingies.  You know, the ones that are RIGHT OVER THERE and that you could be using RIGHT NOW.

Her:  …girl.

Him:  …cretin.

Finis

An Open Letter to Disgrasian (Among Others)

I weighed 170 pounds by the time I was twelve years old.  I was maybe 5’1”.

There.  I just established my fat street cred.  Let’s move on, shall we?

This one goes out especially to Disgrasian for this post, but the rest of you in the “progressive” blogosphere should probably check yourselves, too. 

Ahem.  As a past, present, and future fat kid, I’d like to say something to everyone:

SHUT.  THE.  FUCK.  UP.   ABOUT FAT PEOPLE.

I know it’s hard.  I mean, fat hatred is something we’ve been exposed to for literally our entire lives.  Hell, I even remember it coming up in a conversation with a classmate when I was seven!  Amber Goode (seriously, that was her name) was our blond and shining classroom goddess, and she consented to be my best friend for like, a whole lunch period one day.  During that blissful time that I will treasure forever, she said to me, “Debbie, at first I thought you were fat—but then I got to know you and realized that you’re really very nice.”

It doesn’t get much more straightforward than that:  fat = mean and bad.  And seriously, the English language is just FULL of words and images that back up that idea.  Really, who wants to be a bloated, greasy porker?  If you had to pick one of the seven deadly sins, wouldn’t you go with avarice or lust over… gluttony?  And when it comes right down to it, wouldn’t you rather go out fucking or stealing than clutching a drumstick and laughing Jabba the Hut-style?

Yeah.  Fat hatred is embedded in both the English language and our cultural imagination, just like racism and misogyny are.  FUNNY HOW THAT WORKS.  It’s almost like oppressions are connected or something!

Anyway.  So.  You don’t find fat attractive?  Fine.  Whatever.  I’ll deal.  But this equating fat with everything bad and greedy in our culture really chaps my balls.  Guys, this may come as a shock to you, but I—a fat chick!—am  a progressive former vegetarian who buys local and tries to make sure that her meat is raised ethically.  I even quit buying those damn eggs that come from vegetarian-fed hens because I was all, “But chickens are OMNIVORES, that there’s some BULLSHIT.”   I carpool, take mass transit, or ride a moped; I don’t even have a driver’s license.  I own more reusable bags than I can count and I actually use them.  When I go home to visit, my mother—who is also overweight, by the way—yells at me if she catches me drinking a full calorie soda.  Not because she’s worried about my weight, but because she hates it when I consume high fructose corn syrup and thereby support the corrupt and environmentally profligate corn industry.  Oh, and as for our family politics?  When George W. Bush won his SECOND election, my mother and my sister (also a big girl, btw) soothed their lacerated feelings by defacing magazine covers of W.’s face.

My mom won their informal contest by sketching a half-swallowed lizard on Bush’s mouth.  IT WAS AWESOME.

I vote Democrat, I recycle, I eat local, my whole family’s made up of hippies—how exactly am I destroying the world again?  Oh, right, I’m fucking fat.  My chub is going to spread over the globe like a vast ocean and CRUSH YOU ALL.  And afterwards, my pores will rain grease and despair because all I ever eat is BUCKETS FULL OF FRIED CHICKEN FROM KFC.

Y’all, if I wanted to feel that kind of hate, I’d just turn on Fox news.  Please think a little harder and keep that nonsense out of my socially progressive little corner of the internet.  Please.  Do it for the children.  The FAT children.

Sincerely,

Talulah “Mankiller” Mankiller

Oh Yeah, I’m Kind of a Flake

I keep forgetting to mention that I was interviewed about all things Southern over at Sesquicentennial Madness.  My interview is here, but I would really suggest checking out today’s post.  It’ll break your heart.

The Headless Cupid

Guys, Oliver has figured out how to open drawers and I think my life may be over.  One day, I’m going to come home and find that animal fixing himself a sandwich, and then there will be no stopping him.  DAMN YOU, GIANT CAT BRAIN!

Anyway.  Hey, sometimes I read books?  Remember that time, guys?  The Boyfriend sure as hell does, because he took a bunch of my unwanted books (“Why can’t we keep them?” he asked; “Because THEY’RE CRAP,” I replied) to McKay’s used bookstore in Manassas and got me 25 dollars worth of trade-in credit.

Bad Boyfriend!  BAD!

My Math Brain

Here’s a big shocker:  I can’t do math.

Or rather, I can’t do math involving shapes.  I rock basic algebra, fuck yeah.

Give me an equation that has NOTHING TO DO WITH A SHAPE, and I will kick its ass so hard, I’ll make a dent in the space/ass continuum.

That’s because I am able to see equations for what they are:  a language.

I may not understand that language, but it doesn’t really matter.

I understand rules.  I get grammar.  Tell me the rules, tell me the grammar, and I will fuck some shit up. 

Because 3x + 5 = 17 isn’t just an equation; it’s also a sentence.

When you solve for x, you’re not just finding the value of x, you’re translating for x.

What does this value/word mean?  Use context clues.  Figure out the shit around it.

3x + 5 = 17

-5         -5

3x = 12

/3     /3

X = 4

Undignified Pictures of People and Cats

…I think that title just summed up the entire internet.  Anyway.

So on Monday night I gave Oliver a bath, which was an experience I hope to never repeat–but am certain that I will (fucking dandruff).  Yeah, so holding down 18 pounds worth of wet cat?  FUN.  You should have seen us afterward.

In fact, you MUST see us afterward.

Okay, to put this in perspective, here is a picture of FANG! Mankiller and our sister’s cat, Howard.

They have identical looks of trepidation on their faces because Howard is the one who laid my face open last year.  Bad things happen when people hold Howard against his will:  he always strikes back with the full force of an outraged virgin.

Anyway, that’s how a picture of a pet and a person should look:  dignified.  Imposing.  Fearful.  A tad cross-eyed.

Aaaaand here’s a picture of me and the toilet-drinker directly after his bath: