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	<title>Lauren Hargrave_Lauren Hargrave</title>
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	<link>http://writerlauren.com</link>
	<description>Writer &#124; Copywriter &#124; Humor &#124; Fiction</description>
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		<title>Article on The Daily Muse</title>
		<link>http://writerlauren.com/article-on-the-daily-muse/</link>
		<comments>http://writerlauren.com/article-on-the-daily-muse/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Tue, 15 May 2012 16:12:38 +0000</pubDate>
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				<category><![CDATA[welcome]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://writerlauren.com/?p=982</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Today, The Daily Muse published my first article, check it out! &#160; The Road Less Traveled: Navigating an Unusual Career Path &#160; Happy Tuesday! &#160;]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
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		<title>A Letter to Dr. Laura</title>
		<link>http://writerlauren.com/a-letter-to-dr-laura/</link>
		<comments>http://writerlauren.com/a-letter-to-dr-laura/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 11 May 2012 11:30:39 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[welcome]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://writerlauren.com/?p=977</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[In celebration of Obama&#8217;s recent announcement of his support for same-sex marriage, and as a &#8220;shame on you&#8221; to every person in North Carolina who voted to ban this civil right, I wanted to publish a letter to Dr. Laura that was originally circulated in 2000.  Dr. Laura has since recanted some of her most [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
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		<title>Breastfeeding till They Can Say &#8220;Breast&#8221;</title>
		<link>http://writerlauren.com/breastfeeding-till-they-can-say-breast/</link>
		<comments>http://writerlauren.com/breastfeeding-till-they-can-say-breast/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 10 May 2012 22:54:10 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[welcome]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://writerlauren.com/?p=972</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I saw this on Facebook and had to share.  Personally, I&#8217;d prefer not to screw up my kids before they had the chance to do it themselves, but I&#8217;m curious as to what you think about this&#8230;..]]></description>
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		<title>What I Do</title>
		<link>http://writerlauren.com/what-i-do/</link>
		<comments>http://writerlauren.com/what-i-do/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 07 May 2012 20:12:53 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[welcome]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://writerlauren.com/?p=964</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[“So….what do you do all day?” It’s a common (and fairly valid) question that I get asked somewhat frequently by people other than my mother (she now knows better).  The truth is; every day is different.  Actually, that’s not true.  As much as I would like to claim that this is an accurate depiction of [...]]]></description>
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		<title>The Big 103 goes to the ER</title>
		<link>http://writerlauren.com/the-er/</link>
		<comments>http://writerlauren.com/the-er/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 18 Apr 2012 00:11:33 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[welcome]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://writerlauren.com/?p=957</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Saint Francis is the closest ER to my apartment.  In fact, if I could have taken more than two steps without feeling like my head was going to roll off my body, I could have walked there.  As we came to find out, so could the rest of the people that live in my neighborhood. [...]]]></description>
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		<title>The Big 103</title>
		<link>http://writerlauren.com/the-big-103/</link>
		<comments>http://writerlauren.com/the-big-103/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sat, 14 Apr 2012 20:51:54 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[welcome]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://writerlauren.com/?p=951</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[So I had a 103.5 degree fever the other day. I bet you’re thinking to yourself, how is she going to make that funny? And I’m not.  There is absolutely nothing funny about what happens when your body reaches 103.5 degrees.  Your reality bends into this claustrophobic sphere that shortens your limbs, distorts your vision [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Contraception and Why it Matters to Men</title>
		<link>http://writerlauren.com/contraception-and-why-it-matters-to-men/</link>
		<comments>http://writerlauren.com/contraception-and-why-it-matters-to-men/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 05 Mar 2012 16:24:10 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[welcome]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://writerlauren.com/?p=942</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[In light of the recent contraception wars (including the attack on Planned Parenthood), the “war on religion” and women being “raped too much” while fighting in wars, I wanted to write a more serious post about something I am deeply passionate—the health and safety of women.  All women.  Not just those who are upper middle [...]]]></description>
		<wfw:commentRss>http://writerlauren.com/contraception-and-why-it-matters-to-men/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
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		<title>The Toothbrush</title>
		<link>http://writerlauren.com/the-toothbrush/</link>
		<comments>http://writerlauren.com/the-toothbrush/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 13 Feb 2012 16:40:21 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[welcome]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://writerlauren.com/?p=933</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[So I woke up recently and found myself in a relationship.  If you ask anyone who’s been around me for the past few months, they’ll tell you that it’s actually been a long time coming and probably happened gradually without me noticing. But what I know is, I went to bed one night and everything [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
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		<item>
		<title>Livin in the Loin, Part II</title>
		<link>http://writerlauren.com/livin-in-the-loin-part-ii/</link>
		<comments>http://writerlauren.com/livin-in-the-loin-part-ii/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 03 Feb 2012 13:04:57 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[welcome]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://writerlauren.com/?p=925</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[As you all know, I am living in the ‘loin.  Well-meaning, yet slightly condescending friends of friends have corrected me several times, saying I actually live in the “tender-nob,” as if to say in a posh British accent, “Oh, stop being so hyperbolic.” To them I say, “Bullshit.”  A) It’s only “hyperbolic” because you are [...]]]></description>
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		<slash:comments>2</slash:comments>
		</item>
		<item>
		<title>Marriage, From a Mile-High View</title>
		<link>http://writerlauren.com/marriage-from-a-mile-high-view/</link>
		<comments>http://writerlauren.com/marriage-from-a-mile-high-view/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 02 Feb 2012 18:34:07 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>admin</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[welcome]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://writerlauren.com/?p=918</guid>
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		<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
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Start function wbga_filter: <p>Today, The Daily Muse published my first article, check it out!</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><a href="http://www.thedailymuse.com/career/the-road-less-traveled/">The Road Less Traveled: Navigating an Unusual Career Path</a></p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>Happy Tuesday!</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

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Ending function wbga_filter: <p>Today, The Daily Muse published my first article, check it out!</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><a href="http://www.thedailymuse.com/career/the-road-less-traveled/">The Road Less Traveled: Navigating an Unusual Career Path</a></p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>Happy Tuesday!</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

Start function wbga_filter: <p>In celebration of Obama&#8217;s recent<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kQGMTPab9GQ"> announcement</a> of his support for same-sex marriage, and as a &#8220;shame on you&#8221; to every person in North Carolina who voted to ban this civil right, I wanted to publish a letter to Dr. Laura that was originally circulated in 2000.  Dr. Laura has since recanted some of her most incendiary comments regarding homosexuals, but you could replace her name with your favorite religious conservative, and it would still work just fine.</p>
<p>Dear Dr. Laura:</p>
<p>Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God’s Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination… End of debate.</p>
<p>I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God’s Laws and how to follow them.</p>
<p>1. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can’t I own Canadians?</p>
<p>2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?</p>
<p>3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness – Lev.15: 19-24. The problem is how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.</p>
<p>4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord – Lev.1:9. The problem is, my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?</p>
<p>5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath.Exodus 35:2. clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?</p>
<p>6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination – Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don’t agree. Can you settle this? Are there ‘degrees’ of abomination?</p>
<p>7. Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle- room here?</p>
<p>8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?</p>
<p>9. I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?</p>
<p>10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev.19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? Lev.24:10-16. Couldn’t we just burn them to death at a private family affair, like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)</p>
<p>I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy considerable expertise in such matters, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God’s word is eternal and unchanging.</p>
<p>Your adoring fan.</p>
<p>James M. Kauffman, Ed.D. Professor Emeritus Dept. of Curriculum,<br />
Instruction, and Special Education University of Virginia&#8221;</p>

Start function wbga_in_feed
Ending function wbga_in_feed: 1
Ending function wbga_filter: <p>In celebration of Obama&#8217;s recent<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kQGMTPab9GQ"> announcement</a> of his support for same-sex marriage, and as a &#8220;shame on you&#8221; to every person in North Carolina who voted to ban this civil right, I wanted to publish a letter to Dr. Laura that was originally circulated in 2000.  Dr. Laura has since recanted some of her most incendiary comments regarding homosexuals, but you could replace her name with your favorite religious conservative, and it would still work just fine.</p>
<p>Dear Dr. Laura:</p>
<p>Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God’s Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination… End of debate.</p>
<p>I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God’s Laws and how to follow them.</p>
<p>1. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can’t I own Canadians?</p>
<p>2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?</p>
<p>3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness – Lev.15: 19-24. The problem is how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.</p>
<p>4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord – Lev.1:9. The problem is, my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?</p>
<p>5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath.Exodus 35:2. clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?</p>
<p>6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination – Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don’t agree. Can you settle this? Are there ‘degrees’ of abomination?</p>
<p>7. Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle- room here?</p>
<p>8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?</p>
<p>9. I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?</p>
<p>10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev.19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? Lev.24:10-16. Couldn’t we just burn them to death at a private family affair, like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)</p>
<p>I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy considerable expertise in such matters, so I am confident you can help. Thank you again for reminding us that God’s word is eternal and unchanging.</p>
<p>Your adoring fan.</p>
<p>James M. Kauffman, Ed.D. Professor Emeritus Dept. of Curriculum,<br />
Instruction, and Special Education University of Virginia&#8221;</p>

Start function wbga_filter: <p><img class="aligncenter size-medium wp-image-973" title="Time magazine cover" src="http://writerlauren.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/Time-magazine-cover-225x300.jpg" alt="" width="225" height="300" /></p>
<p>I saw this on Facebook and had to share.  Personally, I&#8217;d prefer not to screw up my kids before they had the chance to do it themselves, but I&#8217;m curious as to what you think about this&#8230;..</p>

Start function wbga_in_feed
Ending function wbga_in_feed: 1
Ending function wbga_filter: <p><img class="aligncenter size-medium wp-image-973" title="Time magazine cover" src="http://writerlauren.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/Time-magazine-cover-225x300.jpg" alt="" width="225" height="300" /></p>
<p>I saw this on Facebook and had to share.  Personally, I&#8217;d prefer not to screw up my kids before they had the chance to do it themselves, but I&#8217;m curious as to what you think about this&#8230;..</p>

Start function wbga_filter: <p>“So….what do you do all day?”</p>
<p>It’s a common (and fairly valid) question that I get asked somewhat frequently by people other than my mother (she now knows better).  The truth is; every day is different.  Actually, that’s not true.  As much as I would like to claim that this is an accurate depiction of my daily life:</p>
<p>﻿<img class="aligncenter size-medium wp-image-965" title="freelance" src="http://writerlauren.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/freelance-221x300.jpg" alt="" width="221" height="300" /></p>
<p>I start a lot of my days the same way: I get up, I make vegetable juice and coffee, I sit down at my computer and I start either writing, or looking for freelance jobs.  I break occasionally to watch the industrious make money on the street corner or I visit my local Asian market for wilted lettuce and pockmarked apples.</p>
<p>This is exponentially less glamorous than what people envision when they hear, “freelance writer.”  The picture in their head usually involves a fancy espresso drink, an outdoor café and a flood of sunlight.  Or they picture travel, late mornings, and even later nights, all spent whimsically typing away with a bottle of wine or Jack Daniels next to my outdated laptop.</p>
<p>As a side note, I’d like to thank Tennessee Williams, Jack Kerouac, Hemmingway and every poet that ever lived, for perpetuating the perception of writers as alcoholics.  Today, this term is used somewhat loosely (usually to describe someone who you don’t like, but who drinks as much as you do), and while the designation might be somewhat unfair, I’m here to tell you that many writers are alcoholics, most are not.  Those that are, are counted amongst the most successful of the global literati.</p>
<p>So it’s something to aspire to.  I’m not sure if it’s that whole tortured, I’m trying to battle my demons thing, or if alcohol breeds creative self-expression (anyone standing at my window on a Saturday night will probably vote for the latter), but in my experience, a little SoCo and lime makes for really good writing.</p>
<p>What was my point?  Oh yea, what I actually “do”.</p>
<p>So, freelance writer is probably the most ambiguous thing anyone could ever “be”&#8211; even “performance artist” is more specific.  But I like it like that for two reasons.  One, it gives me options, and as a creative person, options and a lack of fences is incredibly important.  The second reason, is that it prevents people from automatically assigning a list of judgments about who I am and what I must be like, based on my profession.  If you just said, “I don’t do that,” pay attention to your thoughts the next time someone tells you they’re an accountant or engineer.</p>
<p>Back to me (it is my blog, right?).  The problem I have with multiple options is that I want to try everything all at the same time without pausing for breath or sleep.  I want to write articles, I want to copywrite, I want to write fiction, I want to write nonfiction, I want to be the most prolific writer the world has ever seen.  I want to be and do all of these things so I end up like a puppy in a room full of tennis balls and dog treats with my tongue out and tail wagging, working myself into a frenzy until my head threatens to explode.</p>
<p>Focus.  Breathe.  It will all be ok.</p>
<p>Because landlords don’t take IOUs, I’ve focused on the branch of writing that would pay for my Tenderloin apartment (and that auspicious bottle of wine).  For the last eight months, I have lived primarily as a copywriter, and despite my best efforts to maintain a diversified client-base, laziness kicked in and I did the majority of my work for a digital agency that focused on technology and ecommerce companies.</p>
<p>For a girl who had a flip phone until last summer, this was not exactly my cup of tea.  I’d rather tell you inspirational stories than suggest you install security software on your latest device, but mama had to pay the bills.  Mama also got bored, so life kicked me in the pants.  Remind me to send a card.</p>
<p>As a pattern, I follow the path of least resistance.  I have dreams and aspirations and I’m hungry to make them a reality, but when things don’t immediately work out, I get distracted by the low-hanging fruit that promises instant gratification (even if it later causes indigestion).</p>
<p>Not that the agency was low-hanging fruit—they do great work, provided me with additions to my portfolio, and perhaps my favorite perk, they introduced me to my boyfriend.  But in the grand scheme of my overall career arc, it wasn’t what I wanted to be doing or where I wanted to be doing it.</p>
<p>Now I’m back at the drawing board and in front of a long and comprehensive list of possibilities, trying to figure out which direction to take.  I still want to tell inspirational stories; I still want to pay for my Tenderloin apartment, I still want to publish the book on which I’ve been laboring for a year.</p>
<p>How am I going to marry all of these wants?  I have no freaking idea.</p>
<p>So every day, I wake up, I make vegetable juice and coffee, I sit down at my outdated computer, and I start writing.  And looking for jobs.  And networking.  And reading.  And writing some more.  And that’s what I do all day.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

Start function wbga_in_feed
Ending function wbga_in_feed: 1
Ending function wbga_filter: <p>“So….what do you do all day?”</p>
<p>It’s a common (and fairly valid) question that I get asked somewhat frequently by people other than my mother (she now knows better).  The truth is; every day is different.  Actually, that’s not true.  As much as I would like to claim that this is an accurate depiction of my daily life:</p>
<p>﻿<img class="aligncenter size-medium wp-image-965" title="freelance" src="http://writerlauren.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/freelance-221x300.jpg" alt="" width="221" height="300" /></p>
<p>I start a lot of my days the same way: I get up, I make vegetable juice and coffee, I sit down at my computer and I start either writing, or looking for freelance jobs.  I break occasionally to watch the industrious make money on the street corner or I visit my local Asian market for wilted lettuce and pockmarked apples.</p>
<p>This is exponentially less glamorous than what people envision when they hear, “freelance writer.”  The picture in their head usually involves a fancy espresso drink, an outdoor café and a flood of sunlight.  Or they picture travel, late mornings, and even later nights, all spent whimsically typing away with a bottle of wine or Jack Daniels next to my outdated laptop.</p>
<p>As a side note, I’d like to thank Tennessee Williams, Jack Kerouac, Hemmingway and every poet that ever lived, for perpetuating the perception of writers as alcoholics.  Today, this term is used somewhat loosely (usually to describe someone who you don’t like, but who drinks as much as you do), and while the designation might be somewhat unfair, I’m here to tell you that many writers are alcoholics, most are not.  Those that are, are counted amongst the most successful of the global literati.</p>
<p>So it’s something to aspire to.  I’m not sure if it’s that whole tortured, I’m trying to battle my demons thing, or if alcohol breeds creative self-expression (anyone standing at my window on a Saturday night will probably vote for the latter), but in my experience, a little SoCo and lime makes for really good writing.</p>
<p>What was my point?  Oh yea, what I actually “do”.</p>
<p>So, freelance writer is probably the most ambiguous thing anyone could ever “be”&#8211; even “performance artist” is more specific.  But I like it like that for two reasons.  One, it gives me options, and as a creative person, options and a lack of fences is incredibly important.  The second reason, is that it prevents people from automatically assigning a list of judgments about who I am and what I must be like, based on my profession.  If you just said, “I don’t do that,” pay attention to your thoughts the next time someone tells you they’re an accountant or engineer.</p>
<p>Back to me (it is my blog, right?).  The problem I have with multiple options is that I want to try everything all at the same time without pausing for breath or sleep.  I want to write articles, I want to copywrite, I want to write fiction, I want to write nonfiction, I want to be the most prolific writer the world has ever seen.  I want to be and do all of these things so I end up like a puppy in a room full of tennis balls and dog treats with my tongue out and tail wagging, working myself into a frenzy until my head threatens to explode.</p>
<p>Focus.  Breathe.  It will all be ok.</p>
<p>Because landlords don’t take IOUs, I’ve focused on the branch of writing that would pay for my Tenderloin apartment (and that auspicious bottle of wine).  For the last eight months, I have lived primarily as a copywriter, and despite my best efforts to maintain a diversified client-base, laziness kicked in and I did the majority of my work for a digital agency that focused on technology and ecommerce companies.</p>
<p>For a girl who had a flip phone until last summer, this was not exactly my cup of tea.  I’d rather tell you inspirational stories than suggest you install security software on your latest device, but mama had to pay the bills.  Mama also got bored, so life kicked me in the pants.  Remind me to send a card.</p>
<p>As a pattern, I follow the path of least resistance.  I have dreams and aspirations and I’m hungry to make them a reality, but when things don’t immediately work out, I get distracted by the low-hanging fruit that promises instant gratification (even if it later causes indigestion).</p>
<p>Not that the agency was low-hanging fruit—they do great work, provided me with additions to my portfolio, and perhaps my favorite perk, they introduced me to my boyfriend.  But in the grand scheme of my overall career arc, it wasn’t what I wanted to be doing or where I wanted to be doing it.</p>
<p>Now I’m back at the drawing board and in front of a long and comprehensive list of possibilities, trying to figure out which direction to take.  I still want to tell inspirational stories; I still want to pay for my Tenderloin apartment, I still want to publish the book on which I’ve been laboring for a year.</p>
<p>How am I going to marry all of these wants?  I have no freaking idea.</p>
<p>So every day, I wake up, I make vegetable juice and coffee, I sit down at my outdated computer, and I start writing.  And looking for jobs.  And networking.  And reading.  And writing some more.  And that’s what I do all day.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

Start function wbga_filter: <p>Saint Francis is the closest ER to my apartment.  In fact, if I could have taken more than two steps without feeling like my head was going to roll off my body, I could have walked there.  As we came to find out, so could the rest of the people that live in my neighborhood.</p>
<p>When Ryan and I stumbled into the waiting room, everything looked quiet.  I gave my list of symptoms to the most disinterested nurse they had available, accepted my hospital bracelet and took a seat next to Ryan on a clear plastic chair about as comfortable as concrete.</p>
<p>To our left was a large white, but red-faced man groaning in between each of his saturated hacks and to his left was an older African American man with a drawn face almost as grey as his beard.  Two men, who looked more homeless than sick, occupied the far corner and there were couples of college kids sprinkled around, some sick, some injured, the rest texting.  To our right was a young preppy couple who looked scared of everyone.</p>
<p>I admittedly was having a hard time holding it together.  The fever had taken control of my brain and was insisting that all bodily functions shut down till further notice.  In response, my neck went on strike and refused to hold up my head, so I ended up face down with my forehead on Ryan’s knee.</p>
<p>At this point, one of the homeless “men” named Carla moved to the ground and began eating a sandwich he or she had procured from his or her jacket pocket.  With his/her mouth full and a white substance, one hoped was mayonnaise, dripping down his/her chin and onto his/her tattered pants; “Carla” began to shout greetings to each one of the patients.  I lifted my head, nodded in acknowledgement and then went back to resting my eyes.</p>
<p>Apparently, Carla is a regular at Saint Francis.  An EMT walked up and addressed him/her by his/her name and kindly asked that he/she take a seat.  But Carla didn’t want to take a seat.  Carla wanted the floor, and he/she said so, loudly, spewing white substance all over the EMT’s uniform.  Another EMT entered the picture and not so kindly asked Carla to get off the floor.  He then walked directly at the preppy couple, who looked like they are about to have a seizure, and asked if Carla could sit next them.  He might as well have asked for their first-born child.</p>
<p>It’s ok though because the second EMT recognized Carla.  Carla is not supposed to be at Saint Francis, he/she is supposed to be at the methadone clinic.</p>
<p>“But I need a ride!” He/She protested.</p>
<p>“Take the bus,” they suggested.</p>
<p>“I’m not allowed,” he/she countered.</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>“I’ll get arrested.”</p>
<p>After some incoherent story about why he/she will get arrested if he/she steps foot on the Muni, one of the EMTs broke down and offered him/her a ride.  But Carla wasn’t done yet.  On the way out, he/she purposefully upset a tin of supplies that sent crashing sounds reverberating through the bodies of his/her audience.</p>
<p>“Lauren Hargrave.”</p>
<p>On the heels of this altercation, I hear my name called from the ether and think I will finally get to lie down.  That is until I see the admitting nurse, whose bad day has pulled all of her features to the center of her face where they threaten violence if anyone gets in her way.  I have no interest in being that person.  I just want to lie down.  I just want to feel better.  But when she shows me to my section in the triage room, she peppers me with barbed questions until I start to feel like my illness is my fault.  Like I somehow deserve to feel this bad.</p>
<p>“Are you pregnant?”  She accuses.  I tell her no.</p>
<p>I want to tell her that I’m sorry for whatever I did to deserve this, but she’s jerking my arm and taking my blood pressure and then shooing me back out into the waiting room where Ryan and I stay, slumped over each other, for another 45 minutes until they are ready to see me.</p>
<p>The next nurse is no better than the first.  She thinks I’m faking it.  She thinks I have the flu.  She too thinks I did something to deserve this—maybe drugs, maybe sex, maybe I’m just a bad person.  Again, I want to apologize, but I just tell her I’m not pregnant and lie down, close my eyes, and listen to my fellow patients respond to their diagnoses and treatment options.</p>
<p>One is arguing about whether or not he’s sick or having withdrawals, another has glaucoma, and the guy next to me needs a shot in his butt, but he resists with venom.  Twenty minutes pass, and no one comes to my curtain.  I hear people shout, I hear wheels rolling, the only thing I don’t here is someone addressing Ryan or me, asking why we’ve come.</p>
<p>Finally, the curtains part and in pops a guy who looks like a high school chemistry teacher.  His name is Charlie.</p>
<p>“Well, let’s see here, you don’t look so good.”</p>
<p>“Yea, I’m not feeling well.”</p>
<p>“Yea, I can see that.  You look positively miserable.”  His voice was so sing-songy, I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me, or just really happy to be at work.</p>
<p>“Well, I’d love to smile and pretend I’m having fun, but that’s a lot of effort at this point.”</p>
<p>“Oh no, you don’t have to pretend to have fun.  We’ll getcha aaaall better.  Now what seems to be the problem?”</p>
<p>After reciting my list of symptoms to the fourth or fifth person that day, Charlie says, “Oh my, you’re a bit of a mystery.”  He does a pelvic exam, at which point I practically jump off the bed and then announces he thinks I have a kidney infection and kidney stones.</p>
<p>“That’s really bad,” he says with his hands on his hips and head tilted like I’m a 6 year old with a scraped knee.  “We’re going to run some tests.”</p>
<p>Then my worst nightmare ensues.  Nurse #2 takes blood from one arm and 20 minutes later another nurse enters to pillage the other.  As the third nurse approaches the inside of my elbow with a needle the size of the TransAmerica Building, Charlie pops his head in and sings, “Young lady, could you be pregnant?”</p>
<p>“No!” I shout, a little too emphatically.  “Try again.”</p>
<p>More blood is drawn, I’m hooked up to an IV, I’m given antibiotics.  As a nice woman is wheeling me to receive a CAT scan, she asks, “Are you pregnant?”</p>
<p>“No, I’m not.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure?”</p>
<p>“Yea, I’m pretty sure.”</p>
<p>“100%?”</p>
<p>“Well, I can’t open up my uterus and look inside, but according to the normal pregnancy markers like periods, yea, I’m sure.”</p>
<p>“Okaaay.”  She didn’t seem convinced.  Neither did my radiologist who asked me the exact same questions.</p>
<p>I was starting to think that maybe I was pregnant so I prayed for kidney stones instead.  I promised God all sorts of things, things I didn’t really want to promise, if he could just let it be kidney stones.  If he could let me escape the responsibility of another mouth to feed, there were things I would change.  “I just can’t do this right now.”</p>
<p>Luckily, it turned out to be neither pregnancy nor kidney stones.  About 30 minutes after I was back in my cozy section of the triage room, watching “Cupcake Wars” with Ryan, Charlie bounded through my curtain like a Labrador with a bone.</p>
<p>“It’s a hemorrhaging cyst!” He exclaimed with too much verve.</p>
<p>“Oh, ok.”  Charlie seemed puzzled by my lack of concern, but I’d had a burst cyst before so I knew what I was getting.  Plus a cyst meant that all previous negotiations with God were off.  <em> </em></p>
<p>Charlie explained the cyst was responsible for my abdominal pain and that he would put me on antibiotics, painkillers and anti-nausea medicine for a week, until the infection cleared up.  In his enthusiasm, he forgot to tell me that I also had a kidney infection, but at least he put it on my discharge papers.</p>
<p>When Ryan and I stumbled out of the ER into a misty rain, it felt like a week had passed.  We were both tired and little worse for the wear, but there was the promise of feeling better, and that was all we both really cared about.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

Start function wbga_in_feed
Ending function wbga_in_feed: 1
Ending function wbga_filter: <p>Saint Francis is the closest ER to my apartment.  In fact, if I could have taken more than two steps without feeling like my head was going to roll off my body, I could have walked there.  As we came to find out, so could the rest of the people that live in my neighborhood.</p>
<p>When Ryan and I stumbled into the waiting room, everything looked quiet.  I gave my list of symptoms to the most disinterested nurse they had available, accepted my hospital bracelet and took a seat next to Ryan on a clear plastic chair about as comfortable as concrete.</p>
<p>To our left was a large white, but red-faced man groaning in between each of his saturated hacks and to his left was an older African American man with a drawn face almost as grey as his beard.  Two men, who looked more homeless than sick, occupied the far corner and there were couples of college kids sprinkled around, some sick, some injured, the rest texting.  To our right was a young preppy couple who looked scared of everyone.</p>
<p>I admittedly was having a hard time holding it together.  The fever had taken control of my brain and was insisting that all bodily functions shut down till further notice.  In response, my neck went on strike and refused to hold up my head, so I ended up face down with my forehead on Ryan’s knee.</p>
<p>At this point, one of the homeless “men” named Carla moved to the ground and began eating a sandwich he or she had procured from his or her jacket pocket.  With his/her mouth full and a white substance, one hoped was mayonnaise, dripping down his/her chin and onto his/her tattered pants; “Carla” began to shout greetings to each one of the patients.  I lifted my head, nodded in acknowledgement and then went back to resting my eyes.</p>
<p>Apparently, Carla is a regular at Saint Francis.  An EMT walked up and addressed him/her by his/her name and kindly asked that he/she take a seat.  But Carla didn’t want to take a seat.  Carla wanted the floor, and he/she said so, loudly, spewing white substance all over the EMT’s uniform.  Another EMT entered the picture and not so kindly asked Carla to get off the floor.  He then walked directly at the preppy couple, who looked like they are about to have a seizure, and asked if Carla could sit next them.  He might as well have asked for their first-born child.</p>
<p>It’s ok though because the second EMT recognized Carla.  Carla is not supposed to be at Saint Francis, he/she is supposed to be at the methadone clinic.</p>
<p>“But I need a ride!” He/She protested.</p>
<p>“Take the bus,” they suggested.</p>
<p>“I’m not allowed,” he/she countered.</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>“I’ll get arrested.”</p>
<p>After some incoherent story about why he/she will get arrested if he/she steps foot on the Muni, one of the EMTs broke down and offered him/her a ride.  But Carla wasn’t done yet.  On the way out, he/she purposefully upset a tin of supplies that sent crashing sounds reverberating through the bodies of his/her audience.</p>
<p>“Lauren Hargrave.”</p>
<p>On the heels of this altercation, I hear my name called from the ether and think I will finally get to lie down.  That is until I see the admitting nurse, whose bad day has pulled all of her features to the center of her face where they threaten violence if anyone gets in her way.  I have no interest in being that person.  I just want to lie down.  I just want to feel better.  But when she shows me to my section in the triage room, she peppers me with barbed questions until I start to feel like my illness is my fault.  Like I somehow deserve to feel this bad.</p>
<p>“Are you pregnant?”  She accuses.  I tell her no.</p>
<p>I want to tell her that I’m sorry for whatever I did to deserve this, but she’s jerking my arm and taking my blood pressure and then shooing me back out into the waiting room where Ryan and I stay, slumped over each other, for another 45 minutes until they are ready to see me.</p>
<p>The next nurse is no better than the first.  She thinks I’m faking it.  She thinks I have the flu.  She too thinks I did something to deserve this—maybe drugs, maybe sex, maybe I’m just a bad person.  Again, I want to apologize, but I just tell her I’m not pregnant and lie down, close my eyes, and listen to my fellow patients respond to their diagnoses and treatment options.</p>
<p>One is arguing about whether or not he’s sick or having withdrawals, another has glaucoma, and the guy next to me needs a shot in his butt, but he resists with venom.  Twenty minutes pass, and no one comes to my curtain.  I hear people shout, I hear wheels rolling, the only thing I don’t here is someone addressing Ryan or me, asking why we’ve come.</p>
<p>Finally, the curtains part and in pops a guy who looks like a high school chemistry teacher.  His name is Charlie.</p>
<p>“Well, let’s see here, you don’t look so good.”</p>
<p>“Yea, I’m not feeling well.”</p>
<p>“Yea, I can see that.  You look positively miserable.”  His voice was so sing-songy, I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me, or just really happy to be at work.</p>
<p>“Well, I’d love to smile and pretend I’m having fun, but that’s a lot of effort at this point.”</p>
<p>“Oh no, you don’t have to pretend to have fun.  We’ll getcha aaaall better.  Now what seems to be the problem?”</p>
<p>After reciting my list of symptoms to the fourth or fifth person that day, Charlie says, “Oh my, you’re a bit of a mystery.”  He does a pelvic exam, at which point I practically jump off the bed and then announces he thinks I have a kidney infection and kidney stones.</p>
<p>“That’s really bad,” he says with his hands on his hips and head tilted like I’m a 6 year old with a scraped knee.  “We’re going to run some tests.”</p>
<p>Then my worst nightmare ensues.  Nurse #2 takes blood from one arm and 20 minutes later another nurse enters to pillage the other.  As the third nurse approaches the inside of my elbow with a needle the size of the TransAmerica Building, Charlie pops his head in and sings, “Young lady, could you be pregnant?”</p>
<p>“No!” I shout, a little too emphatically.  “Try again.”</p>
<p>More blood is drawn, I’m hooked up to an IV, I’m given antibiotics.  As a nice woman is wheeling me to receive a CAT scan, she asks, “Are you pregnant?”</p>
<p>“No, I’m not.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure?”</p>
<p>“Yea, I’m pretty sure.”</p>
<p>“100%?”</p>
<p>“Well, I can’t open up my uterus and look inside, but according to the normal pregnancy markers like periods, yea, I’m sure.”</p>
<p>“Okaaay.”  She didn’t seem convinced.  Neither did my radiologist who asked me the exact same questions.</p>
<p>I was starting to think that maybe I was pregnant so I prayed for kidney stones instead.  I promised God all sorts of things, things I didn’t really want to promise, if he could just let it be kidney stones.  If he could let me escape the responsibility of another mouth to feed, there were things I would change.  “I just can’t do this right now.”</p>
<p>Luckily, it turned out to be neither pregnancy nor kidney stones.  About 30 minutes after I was back in my cozy section of the triage room, watching “Cupcake Wars” with Ryan, Charlie bounded through my curtain like a Labrador with a bone.</p>
<p>“It’s a hemorrhaging cyst!” He exclaimed with too much verve.</p>
<p>“Oh, ok.”  Charlie seemed puzzled by my lack of concern, but I’d had a burst cyst before so I knew what I was getting.  Plus a cyst meant that all previous negotiations with God were off.  <em> </em></p>
<p>Charlie explained the cyst was responsible for my abdominal pain and that he would put me on antibiotics, painkillers and anti-nausea medicine for a week, until the infection cleared up.  In his enthusiasm, he forgot to tell me that I also had a kidney infection, but at least he put it on my discharge papers.</p>
<p>When Ryan and I stumbled out of the ER into a misty rain, it felt like a week had passed.  We were both tired and little worse for the wear, but there was the promise of feeling better, and that was all we both really cared about.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

Start function wbga_filter: <p>So I had a 103.5 degree fever the other day.</p>
<p>I bet you’re thinking to yourself, <em>how is she going to make that funny?</em> And I’m not.  There is absolutely nothing funny about what happens when your body reaches 103.5 degrees.  Your reality bends into this claustrophobic sphere that shortens your limbs, distorts your vision and blurs the edges of your brain until you lose the ability to process or comprehend any information from the outside world.  I’ve heard this is similar to Special K.</p>
<p>But what IS funny, is the stuff that happens around you when you’re sick.</p>
<p>I had a moderate fever the day before the big-103 and thought I had the flu.  Then the next day I woke up to a body in revolt.  Make no mistake about it, I felt awful, but when I took my temperature and read 103.5, it didn’t immediately occur to me that this was a serious problem.</p>
<p>I laid there in bed my trying to remember, “Is 104 when you die or when you’re supposed to go to the hospital?”  Without the mental faculties to use my <em>smartphone</em> to Google it, I mulled it over for about 15 minutes before texting the boyfriend at work.</p>
<p>Now, most of you are reading this going, “You idiot, call an ambulance, get to the hospital.”  But what’s worth stating, is that I hate hospitals.  I hate needles, I hate being sick, I hate going to the doctor&#8211; I would rather things just worked themselves out on their own.  If that means I have to suffer through it an extra day or so, fine.  Just keep your blood tests and IVs away from me.</p>
<p>Not shocking, when the BF found out my temperature, he left work immediately to come take me to the hospital, and also not shockingly, I spent the 20 minutes it took him to get here, trying to think of an excuse not to go.  I found one: what if nothing was wrong with me?</p>
<p>Please don’t roll your eyes.</p>
<p>I should at least ask a qualified health care professional what they thought was wrong before spending the money and wasting the ER personnel’s time.  Right?</p>
<p>The BF humored me and we called his health insurance (he has Kaiser and it’s apparently the only company that can afford advice nurses anymore).  The only problem is that they won’t give you advice unless you’re a member of Kaiser (makes sense), so I had to pretend to be Ryan.  With the phone on speaker, here’s how that conversation went:</p>
<p>Nurse: Can I have your name please?</p>
<p>Me: Ryan ____ (I promised I wouldn’t use his full name)</p>
<p>Nurse: I’m sorry, it sounded like you said Ryan.</p>
<p>Me: I did.</p>
<p>Nurse: How do you spell that?</p>
<p>Me: R-Y-A-N.</p>
<p>Nurse: Okaaay.  Uh, can I have your social, member number and address please?</p>
<p>[I gave her the information]</p>
<p>Nurse: It says here that you’re a male.</p>
<p>Me: Yea, I don’t know what to tell you about that.</p>
<p>Nurse: This is a serious problem!  If they think you’re a male-</p>
<p>Me: Yea, I know, look, I’m really not feeling very well-</p>
<p>Nurse: But you can’t have your medical records saying that you’re a male when you’re a female!</p>
<p>Me: I know, I know, can we talk—</p>
<p>Nurse: You need to call customer service to get this straightened out.</p>
<p>[I am now scared she’s going to change Ryan’s sex from “M” to “F”]</p>
<p>Me: I promise I will call customer service after this conversation.  Can I just have you answer my questions?</p>
<p>Nurse: Ok, fine.  What are your symptoms?</p>
<p>Me: High fever, lower back pain, and I was diagnosed with a bacterial infection a few weeks ago in my….uh…</p>
<p>[I look up to see Ryan hovering over me]</p>
<p>Nurse: Where was the bacterial infection?</p>
<p>Me: Uh, it was in my girl part?</p>
<p>[Ryan starts giggling so hard he has to go into the kitchen.  Another thing I should also mention is that I hate the word “vagina”]</p>
<p>Nurse: I don’t see it in your medical records.</p>
<p>Me: Yea, that’s because I went to a clinic—I was out of town.</p>
<p>[At this point, the speaking and the lying on my feet is taking a lot out of me so my voice gets weak and the nurse gets agitated]</p>
<p>Nurse: Okaaay, so when do you want to come in?</p>
<p>Me: Huh?</p>
<p>Nurse: I can’t hear you.</p>
<p>Me: Sorry, so you think I should come in?</p>
<p>Nurse: Well if you feel bad…</p>
<p>[Really?  I could have gotten this advice from the homeless guy outside my apartment]</p>
<p>Me: But what do you think I have?</p>
<p>Nurse: I’m sorry, I’m having a hard time hearing you.</p>
<p>Me (louder): What do you think I have?</p>
<p>Nurse: We have an appointment at 3:40 with Dr. (Something).  Do you want that appointment?</p>
<p>[Here’s where I panic]</p>
<p>Me: Uh, I’m going to have to call you back when I know if I can get there or not.</p>
<p>Nurse: But we may not have that appointment available!</p>
<p>Me: I know, I just need to check—</p>
<p>Nurse: So do you want me to make the appointment or not?!</p>
<p>Me: I gotta go…</p>
<p>So after the most useless phone call in the history of health care, and doing possible damage to Ryan’s medical records, we went to the ER and sat amongst some of the city’s finest and most deranged residents.</p>
<p>To be continued…</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

Start function wbga_in_feed
Ending function wbga_in_feed: 1
Ending function wbga_filter: <p>So I had a 103.5 degree fever the other day.</p>
<p>I bet you’re thinking to yourself, <em>how is she going to make that funny?</em> And I’m not.  There is absolutely nothing funny about what happens when your body reaches 103.5 degrees.  Your reality bends into this claustrophobic sphere that shortens your limbs, distorts your vision and blurs the edges of your brain until you lose the ability to process or comprehend any information from the outside world.  I’ve heard this is similar to Special K.</p>
<p>But what IS funny, is the stuff that happens around you when you’re sick.</p>
<p>I had a moderate fever the day before the big-103 and thought I had the flu.  Then the next day I woke up to a body in revolt.  Make no mistake about it, I felt awful, but when I took my temperature and read 103.5, it didn’t immediately occur to me that this was a serious problem.</p>
<p>I laid there in bed my trying to remember, “Is 104 when you die or when you’re supposed to go to the hospital?”  Without the mental faculties to use my <em>smartphone</em> to Google it, I mulled it over for about 15 minutes before texting the boyfriend at work.</p>
<p>Now, most of you are reading this going, “You idiot, call an ambulance, get to the hospital.”  But what’s worth stating, is that I hate hospitals.  I hate needles, I hate being sick, I hate going to the doctor&#8211; I would rather things just worked themselves out on their own.  If that means I have to suffer through it an extra day or so, fine.  Just keep your blood tests and IVs away from me.</p>
<p>Not shocking, when the BF found out my temperature, he left work immediately to come take me to the hospital, and also not shockingly, I spent the 20 minutes it took him to get here, trying to think of an excuse not to go.  I found one: what if nothing was wrong with me?</p>
<p>Please don’t roll your eyes.</p>
<p>I should at least ask a qualified health care professional what they thought was wrong before spending the money and wasting the ER personnel’s time.  Right?</p>
<p>The BF humored me and we called his health insurance (he has Kaiser and it’s apparently the only company that can afford advice nurses anymore).  The only problem is that they won’t give you advice unless you’re a member of Kaiser (makes sense), so I had to pretend to be Ryan.  With the phone on speaker, here’s how that conversation went:</p>
<p>Nurse: Can I have your name please?</p>
<p>Me: Ryan ____ (I promised I wouldn’t use his full name)</p>
<p>Nurse: I’m sorry, it sounded like you said Ryan.</p>
<p>Me: I did.</p>
<p>Nurse: How do you spell that?</p>
<p>Me: R-Y-A-N.</p>
<p>Nurse: Okaaay.  Uh, can I have your social, member number and address please?</p>
<p>[I gave her the information]</p>
<p>Nurse: It says here that you’re a male.</p>
<p>Me: Yea, I don’t know what to tell you about that.</p>
<p>Nurse: This is a serious problem!  If they think you’re a male-</p>
<p>Me: Yea, I know, look, I’m really not feeling very well-</p>
<p>Nurse: But you can’t have your medical records saying that you’re a male when you’re a female!</p>
<p>Me: I know, I know, can we talk—</p>
<p>Nurse: You need to call customer service to get this straightened out.</p>
<p>[I am now scared she’s going to change Ryan’s sex from “M” to “F”]</p>
<p>Me: I promise I will call customer service after this conversation.  Can I just have you answer my questions?</p>
<p>Nurse: Ok, fine.  What are your symptoms?</p>
<p>Me: High fever, lower back pain, and I was diagnosed with a bacterial infection a few weeks ago in my….uh…</p>
<p>[I look up to see Ryan hovering over me]</p>
<p>Nurse: Where was the bacterial infection?</p>
<p>Me: Uh, it was in my girl part?</p>
<p>[Ryan starts giggling so hard he has to go into the kitchen.  Another thing I should also mention is that I hate the word “vagina”]</p>
<p>Nurse: I don’t see it in your medical records.</p>
<p>Me: Yea, that’s because I went to a clinic—I was out of town.</p>
<p>[At this point, the speaking and the lying on my feet is taking a lot out of me so my voice gets weak and the nurse gets agitated]</p>
<p>Nurse: Okaaay, so when do you want to come in?</p>
<p>Me: Huh?</p>
<p>Nurse: I can’t hear you.</p>
<p>Me: Sorry, so you think I should come in?</p>
<p>Nurse: Well if you feel bad…</p>
<p>[Really?  I could have gotten this advice from the homeless guy outside my apartment]</p>
<p>Me: But what do you think I have?</p>
<p>Nurse: I’m sorry, I’m having a hard time hearing you.</p>
<p>Me (louder): What do you think I have?</p>
<p>Nurse: We have an appointment at 3:40 with Dr. (Something).  Do you want that appointment?</p>
<p>[Here’s where I panic]</p>
<p>Me: Uh, I’m going to have to call you back when I know if I can get there or not.</p>
<p>Nurse: But we may not have that appointment available!</p>
<p>Me: I know, I just need to check—</p>
<p>Nurse: So do you want me to make the appointment or not?!</p>
<p>Me: I gotta go…</p>
<p>So after the most useless phone call in the history of health care, and doing possible damage to Ryan’s medical records, we went to the ER and sat amongst some of the city’s finest and most deranged residents.</p>
<p>To be continued…</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

Start function wbga_filter: <p>In light of the recent contraception wars (including the attack on Planned Parenthood), the “war on religion” and women being <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ooMMue-qwQ">“raped too much”</a> while fighting in wars, I wanted to write a more serious post about something I am deeply passionate—the health and safety of women.  All women.  Not just those who are upper middle class and white and can afford their contraceptive co-pay.  These are the same women whose doctors tell them that they don’t need to worry about HIV or Syphilis, since it’s not really a problem for their “demographic”.</p>
<p>All women deserve to be healthy, protected and to have their concerns heard and needs met without the rest of society (i.e. the men running it) making them feel as though said concerns and needs are burdensome or costing everyone too much money.</p>
<p>Look guys, we get it.  We live in your world.  As your wives and girlfriends, we accept that we have to coddle your insecurities.  As your co-workers, we accept that we have to hide our emotions so we don’t make you feel uncomfortable (aka “acting unprofessionally”).  We also accept (even if you don’t want to admit it) that we will continue to swallow a fair amount of sexual innuendo while not wearing anything too revealing.  For centuries, we have been accepting your problems as ours.</p>
<p>Now, at a time when women’s health and equality issues are finally getting the attention they deserve, some men want to sit back with their T-Rex arms and say, “Not our problem.”  Or, “I don’t want to pay for that.”  Bull shit.  Contraception is everyone’s problem and if any men hope to get laid in the next 10 years, they will make it their problem now.</p>
<p><strong>Why Contraception is a Straight “Man’s Problem” Too</strong></p>
<p>When the sexual revolution came and went, women thought they experienced a type of liberation with the advent of birth control.  On the surface, it seemed like they were taking control of their lives and ownership of their reproductive health.</p>
<p>But with control and ownership, comes responsibility.  Before the pill, if a woman got pregnant, it was largely seen as the man’s problem too.  After the pill, the onus was put almost entirely on the woman and pregnancy and reproductive health became largely her problem.</p>
<p>“Are you on the pill?” is still one of the first questions men ask if they are going to sleep with a woman.  As if to say, “Are <strong>you</strong> taking the necessary precautions <strong>for both</strong> of us?”  In the end, the only real liberation was from having to hide the fact that women actually enjoyed sex.</p>
<p>I’m not complaining about this.  As women, most of us have accepted this responsibility because we like having some control over “family planning” as it is so politely called.  We are shouldering 100% of the physical burden so that no one (which includes men) has to worry, but here’s the rub&#8211; now we’re debating whether women should shoulder 100% of the financial burden as well.</p>
<p>Really?  Last time I checked with a pregnant woman, a dude was involved somewhere in the process.</p>
<p>The discussion really is; do women have an undeniable and universal right to access contraception.  Men have universal access to contraception because buying condoms is not cost prohibitive, and women generally share (and are expected to share) in this financial burden.  But buying birth control can be cost prohibitive (it can cost a woman upwards of $90/month without coverage), and since you need a prescription (meaning you can’t just go pick some up at the corner store on your way home), there are very few men who financially contribute to this.</p>
<p>So why not just use condoms?  Because birth control is better.  Things happen with condoms—they break, they’re not put on correctly, and sometimes men convince their partners not to use them.</p>
<p>“But baby, I don’t like condoms.  I’ll pull out I promise.”  Bitch, please.  There may be curable STDs out there, but children aren’t one of them (save a very expensive, invasive and traumatic procedure).</p>
<p>What about Planned Parenthood or state funded programs?  These sources of affordable reproductive healthcare (which include life-saving annual exams) are <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/andrea-kane/birth-control-mandate_b_1307830.html">under attack</a>.  Conservative groups are throwing everything they can at Planned Parenthood to shut it down, and the U.S. House of Representatives has voted the last two years to eliminate funding for Title X (the program that provides free or low-cost contraceptives for low-income women).  Relying on Title X is also not an option for most women whose income is too high to qualify (and yet too low to afford birth control).</p>
<p>What’s more is that a number of states such as Texas, Montana and New Jersey have severely reduced or eliminated funding for contraception in the last few years, and more plan to follow suit.  The options are dwindling and without someone (like the President) to champion women’s reproductive rights, we may soon find ourselves revisiting (and losing) <em>Roe v. Wade</em> and a woman’s right to choose.</p>
<p>Guys, even if you don’t have a girlfriend, wife or “special friend” who would benefit from this, think about going out to a bar.  You’re buying drinks, putting in time with some girl and you’re planning to take her home.  Don’t you want to increase your chances that she’s covering your bases?  If birth control is free, the odds are in your favor.</p>
<p>Trust me, you want this.</p>
<p><strong>How Birth Control Helps Society as a Whole</strong></p>
<p>What I feel is getting lost in the debate, is the fact that free access to contraception helps EVERYONE involved.  It helps the women who don’t want to get pregnant, it helps the men who aren’t ready to hear, “Daddy I’m hungry,” and it helps society as a whole because fewer unplanned pregnancies mean less poverty and higher education and lower crime rates (the Donohue-Levitt <a href="http://pricetheory.uchicago.edu/levitt/Papers/DonohueLevittTheImpactOfLegalized2001.pdf">hypothesis</a>).</p>
<p>Before you start to think, “She’s talking about the ‘greater good’,” and then cry, <strong><em>“Socialism!”</em></strong> (gasp, the horror), let me remind you that we are all part of a functioning society that uses communal roads and sewer systems and shared resources (like the police and fire departments), so things like the crime rate and economic and racial disparity are all of our problems.  Even if you’re white, wealthy and are, in the words of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TG4f9zR5yzY">Louis CK</a>, without any real problems.</p>
<p>The issues of unwanted or unintended pregnancies and their affect on mothers, children and society as whole have been studied ad nauseum.  Here’s how it all shakes out:</p>
<p>1) <a href="http://www.prochoiceforum.org.uk/psy_ocr2.php">Studies</a> have linked unintended and unwanted pregnancies to the following:</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">a) Greater chances of illness or death for both mother and child.</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">b) Divorce.</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">c) Poverty.</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">d) Child abuse.</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">e) Juvenile delinquency.</p>
<p>2) As adults, unwanted children are more likely to:</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">a) Engage in criminal behavior.</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">b) Be on welfare.</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">c) Receive psychiatric services.</p>
<p>3) Unwanted or unintended pregnancy is most likely to occur among women who are young, poor, and/or a member of an ethnic minority, thus exacerbating the economic and racial divides:</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">a) <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/18/us/for-women-under-30-most-births-occur-outside-marriage.html?_r=1&amp;scp=4&amp;sq=single%20parent%20families&amp;st=cse">53%</a> of births that occur to women under the age of 30 occur outside of marriage.</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">b) 73% of black children are born outside marriage (compared to 53% of Latinos and 29% of whites).</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">c) 92% of college-educated women are married when they give birth (compared with 62% of women with some college, and 43% of women with a high school diploma or less).</p>
<p>I’m not even going to touch teen pregnancy and how that affects the mothers, children and society as a whole (that’s a separate post altogether).  But let’s just all agree for shits and giggles that it’s not a good thing.</p>
<p><strong>Insurance Companies, Cost and More Claims of Socialism</strong></p>
<p>Alright, let’s say, for the sake of argument, I’ve convinced you that a) all women should have access to birth control and b) as a dude, this access makes your life easier, less worrisome and inherently more fun.  Let’s also say that you still don’t want to pay for it, and you’re worried that if the insurance companies foot the bill, it’s going to raise your healthcare costs.</p>
<p>Technically, this would mean you still maintain the “it’s not my problem” stance, and haven’t been convinced at all, but we’ll ignore that.</p>
<p>What this argument boiled down to in one conversation were the comments, “Having sex is a choice, and when you have sex, you have to accept the risks.  If the insurance companies have to pay for the contraception, they’re going to raise everyone’s rates to cover the costs, and I don’t want to end up paying for other people who choose to have sex.”</p>
<p>Ok, fine.  But assuming that insurance really does function like a shared pool as described above (and I’m not sure that it does), there are a few things I want to point out:</p>
<p>1) You’re <strong>already</strong> paying for people to have sex—old people to be specific.  Insurance covers Viagra for men, which means that if you employ the argument above, you are prioritizing grandpa’s ability to get an erection over a woman’s desire to prevent a pregnancy and all of the previously mentioned societal ills.  Hmm.</p>
<p>2) Do you have any idea how much a pregnant woman costs insurance companies?  The average <a href="http://www.ehow.com/about_5434061_average-cost-pregnancy.html">delivery</a> costs between $5,000 and $40,000, and that doesn’t include all of the prenatal visits and ultrasounds that precede it or the doctor appointments that follow.  Compare that with the cost of contraception at $90/month.  Which one do you think will have a more adverse affect on your insurance rates?</p>
<p>3) In terms of rising health care costs, providing women access to contraception is barely a blip on the radar.  In fact, it’s almost laughable how small of an impact it would have on the global picture.  If you want to blame your monthly payment, co-pay or premium on something, try obesity, bureaucracy, and the insurance companies themselves.</p>
<p><strong>The Hypocrisy of Religion and Myth of Sexual Deviance</strong></p>
<p>I’m not going to lie, I have little interest in addressing the religious argument and how hypocritical it is to use “freedom of religion” as an excuse to impose your religious views on others.  Truth is, I don’t think it’s a valid position.  Especially if religious organizations won’t be forced to pay for the contraception.</p>
<p>To the religious hell-bent on imposing their arcane views on the rest of us, this is all I have to say:</p>
<p>People have sex for purposes other than creating a child—even the religious ones.  Get over it.  It doesn’t mean they’re sluts or deviant, and it will not lead to the downfall of society.  But if you want to hide your head in the sand and pretend that abstinence education actually works, fine.  Just don’t muddy the waters of intellectual discourse with your outdated rhetoric.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

Start function wbga_in_feed
Ending function wbga_in_feed: 1
Ending function wbga_filter: <p>In light of the recent contraception wars (including the attack on Planned Parenthood), the “war on religion” and women being <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ooMMue-qwQ">“raped too much”</a> while fighting in wars, I wanted to write a more serious post about something I am deeply passionate—the health and safety of women.  All women.  Not just those who are upper middle class and white and can afford their contraceptive co-pay.  These are the same women whose doctors tell them that they don’t need to worry about HIV or Syphilis, since it’s not really a problem for their “demographic”.</p>
<p>All women deserve to be healthy, protected and to have their concerns heard and needs met without the rest of society (i.e. the men running it) making them feel as though said concerns and needs are burdensome or costing everyone too much money.</p>
<p>Look guys, we get it.  We live in your world.  As your wives and girlfriends, we accept that we have to coddle your insecurities.  As your co-workers, we accept that we have to hide our emotions so we don’t make you feel uncomfortable (aka “acting unprofessionally”).  We also accept (even if you don’t want to admit it) that we will continue to swallow a fair amount of sexual innuendo while not wearing anything too revealing.  For centuries, we have been accepting your problems as ours.</p>
<p>Now, at a time when women’s health and equality issues are finally getting the attention they deserve, some men want to sit back with their T-Rex arms and say, “Not our problem.”  Or, “I don’t want to pay for that.”  Bull shit.  Contraception is everyone’s problem and if any men hope to get laid in the next 10 years, they will make it their problem now.</p>
<p><strong>Why Contraception is a Straight “Man’s Problem” Too</strong></p>
<p>When the sexual revolution came and went, women thought they experienced a type of liberation with the advent of birth control.  On the surface, it seemed like they were taking control of their lives and ownership of their reproductive health.</p>
<p>But with control and ownership, comes responsibility.  Before the pill, if a woman got pregnant, it was largely seen as the man’s problem too.  After the pill, the onus was put almost entirely on the woman and pregnancy and reproductive health became largely her problem.</p>
<p>“Are you on the pill?” is still one of the first questions men ask if they are going to sleep with a woman.  As if to say, “Are <strong>you</strong> taking the necessary precautions <strong>for both</strong> of us?”  In the end, the only real liberation was from having to hide the fact that women actually enjoyed sex.</p>
<p>I’m not complaining about this.  As women, most of us have accepted this responsibility because we like having some control over “family planning” as it is so politely called.  We are shouldering 100% of the physical burden so that no one (which includes men) has to worry, but here’s the rub&#8211; now we’re debating whether women should shoulder 100% of the financial burden as well.</p>
<p>Really?  Last time I checked with a pregnant woman, a dude was involved somewhere in the process.</p>
<p>The discussion really is; do women have an undeniable and universal right to access contraception.  Men have universal access to contraception because buying condoms is not cost prohibitive, and women generally share (and are expected to share) in this financial burden.  But buying birth control can be cost prohibitive (it can cost a woman upwards of $90/month without coverage), and since you need a prescription (meaning you can’t just go pick some up at the corner store on your way home), there are very few men who financially contribute to this.</p>
<p>So why not just use condoms?  Because birth control is better.  Things happen with condoms—they break, they’re not put on correctly, and sometimes men convince their partners not to use them.</p>
<p>“But baby, I don’t like condoms.  I’ll pull out I promise.”  Bitch, please.  There may be curable STDs out there, but children aren’t one of them (save a very expensive, invasive and traumatic procedure).</p>
<p>What about Planned Parenthood or state funded programs?  These sources of affordable reproductive healthcare (which include life-saving annual exams) are <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/andrea-kane/birth-control-mandate_b_1307830.html">under attack</a>.  Conservative groups are throwing everything they can at Planned Parenthood to shut it down, and the U.S. House of Representatives has voted the last two years to eliminate funding for Title X (the program that provides free or low-cost contraceptives for low-income women).  Relying on Title X is also not an option for most women whose income is too high to qualify (and yet too low to afford birth control).</p>
<p>What’s more is that a number of states such as Texas, Montana and New Jersey have severely reduced or eliminated funding for contraception in the last few years, and more plan to follow suit.  The options are dwindling and without someone (like the President) to champion women’s reproductive rights, we may soon find ourselves revisiting (and losing) <em>Roe v. Wade</em> and a woman’s right to choose.</p>
<p>Guys, even if you don’t have a girlfriend, wife or “special friend” who would benefit from this, think about going out to a bar.  You’re buying drinks, putting in time with some girl and you’re planning to take her home.  Don’t you want to increase your chances that she’s covering your bases?  If birth control is free, the odds are in your favor.</p>
<p>Trust me, you want this.</p>
<p><strong>How Birth Control Helps Society as a Whole</strong></p>
<p>What I feel is getting lost in the debate, is the fact that free access to contraception helps EVERYONE involved.  It helps the women who don’t want to get pregnant, it helps the men who aren’t ready to hear, “Daddy I’m hungry,” and it helps society as a whole because fewer unplanned pregnancies mean less poverty and higher education and lower crime rates (the Donohue-Levitt <a href="http://pricetheory.uchicago.edu/levitt/Papers/DonohueLevittTheImpactOfLegalized2001.pdf">hypothesis</a>).</p>
<p>Before you start to think, “She’s talking about the ‘greater good’,” and then cry, <strong><em>“Socialism!”</em></strong> (gasp, the horror), let me remind you that we are all part of a functioning society that uses communal roads and sewer systems and shared resources (like the police and fire departments), so things like the crime rate and economic and racial disparity are all of our problems.  Even if you’re white, wealthy and are, in the words of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TG4f9zR5yzY">Louis CK</a>, without any real problems.</p>
<p>The issues of unwanted or unintended pregnancies and their affect on mothers, children and society as whole have been studied ad nauseum.  Here’s how it all shakes out:</p>
<p>1) <a href="http://www.prochoiceforum.org.uk/psy_ocr2.php">Studies</a> have linked unintended and unwanted pregnancies to the following:</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">a) Greater chances of illness or death for both mother and child.</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">b) Divorce.</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">c) Poverty.</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">d) Child abuse.</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">e) Juvenile delinquency.</p>
<p>2) As adults, unwanted children are more likely to:</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">a) Engage in criminal behavior.</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">b) Be on welfare.</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">c) Receive psychiatric services.</p>
<p>3) Unwanted or unintended pregnancy is most likely to occur among women who are young, poor, and/or a member of an ethnic minority, thus exacerbating the economic and racial divides:</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">a) <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/18/us/for-women-under-30-most-births-occur-outside-marriage.html?_r=1&amp;scp=4&amp;sq=single%20parent%20families&amp;st=cse">53%</a> of births that occur to women under the age of 30 occur outside of marriage.</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">b) 73% of black children are born outside marriage (compared to 53% of Latinos and 29% of whites).</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">c) 92% of college-educated women are married when they give birth (compared with 62% of women with some college, and 43% of women with a high school diploma or less).</p>
<p>I’m not even going to touch teen pregnancy and how that affects the mothers, children and society as a whole (that’s a separate post altogether).  But let’s just all agree for shits and giggles that it’s not a good thing.</p>
<p><strong>Insurance Companies, Cost and More Claims of Socialism</strong></p>
<p>Alright, let’s say, for the sake of argument, I’ve convinced you that a) all women should have access to birth control and b) as a dude, this access makes your life easier, less worrisome and inherently more fun.  Let’s also say that you still don’t want to pay for it, and you’re worried that if the insurance companies foot the bill, it’s going to raise your healthcare costs.</p>
<p>Technically, this would mean you still maintain the “it’s not my problem” stance, and haven’t been convinced at all, but we’ll ignore that.</p>
<p>What this argument boiled down to in one conversation were the comments, “Having sex is a choice, and when you have sex, you have to accept the risks.  If the insurance companies have to pay for the contraception, they’re going to raise everyone’s rates to cover the costs, and I don’t want to end up paying for other people who choose to have sex.”</p>
<p>Ok, fine.  But assuming that insurance really does function like a shared pool as described above (and I’m not sure that it does), there are a few things I want to point out:</p>
<p>1) You’re <strong>already</strong> paying for people to have sex—old people to be specific.  Insurance covers Viagra for men, which means that if you employ the argument above, you are prioritizing grandpa’s ability to get an erection over a woman’s desire to prevent a pregnancy and all of the previously mentioned societal ills.  Hmm.</p>
<p>2) Do you have any idea how much a pregnant woman costs insurance companies?  The average <a href="http://www.ehow.com/about_5434061_average-cost-pregnancy.html">delivery</a> costs between $5,000 and $40,000, and that doesn’t include all of the prenatal visits and ultrasounds that precede it or the doctor appointments that follow.  Compare that with the cost of contraception at $90/month.  Which one do you think will have a more adverse affect on your insurance rates?</p>
<p>3) In terms of rising health care costs, providing women access to contraception is barely a blip on the radar.  In fact, it’s almost laughable how small of an impact it would have on the global picture.  If you want to blame your monthly payment, co-pay or premium on something, try obesity, bureaucracy, and the insurance companies themselves.</p>
<p><strong>The Hypocrisy of Religion and Myth of Sexual Deviance</strong></p>
<p>I’m not going to lie, I have little interest in addressing the religious argument and how hypocritical it is to use “freedom of religion” as an excuse to impose your religious views on others.  Truth is, I don’t think it’s a valid position.  Especially if religious organizations won’t be forced to pay for the contraception.</p>
<p>To the religious hell-bent on imposing their arcane views on the rest of us, this is all I have to say:</p>
<p>People have sex for purposes other than creating a child—even the religious ones.  Get over it.  It doesn’t mean they’re sluts or deviant, and it will not lead to the downfall of society.  But if you want to hide your head in the sand and pretend that abstinence education actually works, fine.  Just don’t muddy the waters of intellectual discourse with your outdated rhetoric.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>

Start function wbga_filter: <p>So I woke up recently and found myself in a relationship.  If you ask anyone who’s been around me for the past few months, they’ll tell you that it’s actually been a long time coming and probably happened gradually without me noticing.</p>
<p>But what I know is, I went to bed one night and everything in my apartment, save the dude in my bed, was mine.  The next morning I woke up and there was a second toothbrush casually left in my bathroom for future use, an extra large sweatshirt and LSU t-shirt in the suitcase moonlighting as my second dresser, a bag of spare clothes hanging from the hook by my closet, and a second laptop lying on my floor.</p>
<p>“Oh my god, I’m surrounded.”</p>
<p>I didn’t know what to do with this encroachment into my space.  I actually considered calling to tell him that he forgot his toothbrush, just in case he, you know, needed to brush his teeth that night; but then I was afraid he actually did just forget it.  Because this would be worse.  Even though I didn’t ask for it to be there; didn’t want it to be there, now that it was there, I felt like it was partly mine and if he took it back, I would be losing something.  So I didn’t call.</p>
<p>I just stared at it like an unpopped whitehead on my boss’s forehead every time I went into the bathroom and let a whole day go by without any mention of the toothbrush.  I saw him at work and tried to check his teeth without looking like a psycho; they looked clean.  I kissed him in the elevator and his breath didn’t reek.</p>
<p>“Maybe he didn’t leave it on accident?”</p>
<p>Another day went by without mention of the toothbrush and then I started to freak out for another reason.</p>
<p>“Why wouldn’t he at least say something about the toothbrush?”  I asked a friend who was trying not to laugh.</p>
<p>“What do you want him to do, conduct a ‘toothbrush leaving ceremony’?”</p>
<p>“Shut up.  Seriously though—wouldn’t you at least alert someone to the fact that you were going to leave a very personal, very ‘marking my territory’ thing in their apartment?”</p>
<p>“He probably got tired of having to remember to bring it back and forth.  And what do you care?  You’re not seeing anyone else anyways.”</p>
<p>“I know, but still.  He’s the one who wasn’t sure he wanted to be in a serious relationship and now he just gets to leave his stuff all over my apartment?”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you try leaving stuff over there?”</p>
<p>“Because he lives with three other guys and I’m pretty sure the apartment hasn’t been cleaned since they moved in three years ago.”</p>
<p>“Ok, I don’t think it’s the stuff at your place—it’s because <em>he’s</em> in your <em>space</em>.  Not your physical space, but your mental and emotional space.”</p>
<p>My friend was right.  Right around the time of the toothbrush, a shift occurred in our relationship.  Well, it’s probably more accurate to say that a shift occurred in me.  Before the toothbrush, if he had walked away, I would have been fine.  I would have been a little bummed, but it wouldn’t have been anything a bottle of red wine and a night out with my girls couldn’t cure.  Post toothbrush, I wasn’t so sure that was true.</p>
<p>It’s weird that a cheap piece of molded plastic can hold such great significance, but in that moment, all of the fears and disappointments of my past failed relationships rested on its tiny bristles.  I wanted security, an ironclad promise that I wouldn’t get hurt, a guarantee that if I was going to invest emotions and energy, these scarce resources would not be squandered.  The toothbrush didn’t seem strong enough to carry the weight of these obligations.</p>
<p>So again, I didn’t call.  I avoided communication for more than 24 hours and then, being the smart guy that he is, he called and told me he was coming over and that we were hanging out.  And we ended up having a great night, and weekend, and now everything is fine.  And normal.  Even when we had “the talk” it was handled as casually as dinner reservations.</p>
<p>I heard him refer to me as “one of the girlfriends” of his friend group, so I interrupted him with, “Wait, so am I your girlfriend?”</p>
<p>He responded with, “Well, yea.”  As if to say, “duh.”</p>
<p>To which I said, “Ok, so you know you have to let me know this stuff, right?”</p>
<p>“I know, sorry.”</p>
<p>And that was about it.  For someone who is as big of a looney toon as I am, you’d think we’d kick off our official start date with a long, in-depth conversation where one was pulling on the other to negotiate more satisfactory terms of the agreement.  But alas, my craziness went out with a whimper.  I don’t doubt there’s more to come.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><a id="uox_link" rel="e61f09098d9459c30c1d5abb1f014c3a" href="http://userscounter.dev/en/stats/e61f09098d9459c30c1d5abb1f014c3a" target="_blank">Online Users</a></p>

Start function wbga_in_feed
Ending function wbga_in_feed: 1
Ending function wbga_filter: <p>So I woke up recently and found myself in a relationship.  If you ask anyone who’s been around me for the past few months, they’ll tell you that it’s actually been a long time coming and probably happened gradually without me noticing.</p>
<p>But what I know is, I went to bed one night and everything in my apartment, save the dude in my bed, was mine.  The next morning I woke up and there was a second toothbrush casually left in my bathroom for future use, an extra large sweatshirt and LSU t-shirt in the suitcase moonlighting as my second dresser, a bag of spare clothes hanging from the hook by my closet, and a second laptop lying on my floor.</p>
<p>“Oh my god, I’m surrounded.”</p>
<p>I didn’t know what to do with this encroachment into my space.  I actually considered calling to tell him that he forgot his toothbrush, just in case he, you know, needed to brush his teeth that night; but then I was afraid he actually did just forget it.  Because this would be worse.  Even though I didn’t ask for it to be there; didn’t want it to be there, now that it was there, I felt like it was partly mine and if he took it back, I would be losing something.  So I didn’t call.</p>
<p>I just stared at it like an unpopped whitehead on my boss’s forehead every time I went into the bathroom and let a whole day go by without any mention of the toothbrush.  I saw him at work and tried to check his teeth without looking like a psycho; they looked clean.  I kissed him in the elevator and his breath didn’t reek.</p>
<p>“Maybe he didn’t leave it on accident?”</p>
<p>Another day went by without mention of the toothbrush and then I started to freak out for another reason.</p>
<p>“Why wouldn’t he at least say something about the toothbrush?”  I asked a friend who was trying not to laugh.</p>
<p>“What do you want him to do, conduct a ‘toothbrush leaving ceremony’?”</p>
<p>“Shut up.  Seriously though—wouldn’t you at least alert someone to the fact that you were going to leave a very personal, very ‘marking my territory’ thing in their apartment?”</p>
<p>“He probably got tired of having to remember to bring it back and forth.  And what do you care?  You’re not seeing anyone else anyways.”</p>
<p>“I know, but still.  He’s the one who wasn’t sure he wanted to be in a serious relationship and now he just gets to leave his stuff all over my apartment?”</p>
<p>“Why don’t you try leaving stuff over there?”</p>
<p>“Because he lives with three other guys and I’m pretty sure the apartment hasn’t been cleaned since they moved in three years ago.”</p>
<p>“Ok, I don’t think it’s the stuff at your place—it’s because <em>he’s</em> in your <em>space</em>.  Not your physical space, but your mental and emotional space.”</p>
<p>My friend was right.  Right around the time of the toothbrush, a shift occurred in our relationship.  Well, it’s probably more accurate to say that a shift occurred in me.  Before the toothbrush, if he had walked away, I would have been fine.  I would have been a little bummed, but it wouldn’t have been anything a bottle of red wine and a night out with my girls couldn’t cure.  Post toothbrush, I wasn’t so sure that was true.</p>
<p>It’s weird that a cheap piece of molded plastic can hold such great significance, but in that moment, all of the fears and disappointments of my past failed relationships rested on its tiny bristles.  I wanted security, an ironclad promise that I wouldn’t get hurt, a guarantee that if I was going to invest emotions and energy, these scarce resources would not be squandered.  The toothbrush didn’t seem strong enough to carry the weight of these obligations.</p>
<p>So again, I didn’t call.  I avoided communication for more than 24 hours and then, being the smart guy that he is, he called and told me he was coming over and that we were hanging out.  And we ended up having a great night, and weekend, and now everything is fine.  And normal.  Even when we had “the talk” it was handled as casually as dinner reservations.</p>
<p>I heard him refer to me as “one of the girlfriends” of his friend group, so I interrupted him with, “Wait, so am I your girlfriend?”</p>
<p>He responded with, “Well, yea.”  As if to say, “duh.”</p>
<p>To which I said, “Ok, so you know you have to let me know this stuff, right?”</p>
<p>“I know, sorry.”</p>
<p>And that was about it.  For someone who is as big of a looney toon as I am, you’d think we’d kick off our official start date with a long, in-depth conversation where one was pulling on the other to negotiate more satisfactory terms of the agreement.  But alas, my craziness went out with a whimper.  I don’t doubt there’s more to come.</p>
<p>&nbsp;</p>
<p><a id="uox_link" rel="e61f09098d9459c30c1d5abb1f014c3a" href="http://userscounter.dev/en/stats/e61f09098d9459c30c1d5abb1f014c3a" target="_blank">Online Users</a></p>

Start function wbga_filter: <p>As you all know, I am living in the ‘loin.  Well-meaning, yet slightly condescending friends of friends have corrected me several times, saying I <em>actually</em> live in the “tender-nob,” as if to say in a posh British accent, “Oh, stop being so hyperbolic.”</p>
<p>To them I say, “Bullshit.”  A) It’s only “hyperbolic” because you are assigning a judgment, value, or image to the “Tenderloin” that may or may not reflect the reality of my everyday experience; and B) If I hear gunshots (or a car backfiring) outside my window at 4am, I get to claim the Tenderloin, no matter how your image of my life looks.</p>
<p>For the uninitiated, the Tenderloin is the area of San Francisco where many of the city’s unfortunate are corralled into a space of three-square blocks (give or take a street corner or two).  There are police-operated cameras attached to light posts, drug deals that occur anyways and a plethora of shaky hookers willing to do just about anything if you fill their crack pipe.</p>
<p>There are also families with children and struggling artists and people in transition.  It is probably the city’s most diverse neighborhood.</p>
<p>The “tender-nob” is the invention of leasing agents trying to rent apartments on Geary (my street) as it extends from Union Square to Polk Street.  In reality, it doesn’t exist, but it gives white yuppies who can’t find an apartment anywhere else the promise of future gentrification.</p>
<p>So am I being hyperbolic when I say, “I live in the Tenderloin”?  I guess it would depend on why I’m “claiming” it.  If my purpose is to give an honest answer as to which section of the city I live, then, no.  If my purpose is to imply something about my everyday life experience, or simply to shock people, then I guess you could accuse me of exaggeration for effect.</p>
<p>And anyone who has ever read a word I write knows that I’m slightly prone to exaggeration.</p>
<p>For example, I don’t see the hockey jersey-wearing guy from the second floor every day, so I don’t really know how often he wears it.  Maybe it’s his Tuesday jersey and every time I see him, it happens to be Tuesday.  Or, it could be like the favored sweatshirt of my +1 that gets thrown on over whatever he’s wearing in the interest of warmth and comfort.</p>
<p>What’s that?  Oh, you want to know what a +1 is.  It’s the dude or chick that leaves a toothbrush at your place but isn’t your official “boyfriend” or “girlfriend”.  If you were to reply to an Evite, they would be your “+1”.</p>
<p>Saying, “the guy I’m dating,” or “seeing” or [insert whatever verb you happen to be –“ing”ing] is really too cumbersome, so I’ll employ the +1 reference whenever talking about him.  Which probably won’t be that often since I think he started reading my blog…and if he hasn’t, it will only be a matter of time before he does.  And really, getting his permission to talk about him would take away half of the fun.</p>
<p>So where was I?  Oh, the Tenderloin.  I live here.  And I think my very favorite part about it is when I walk home at night from either yoga or dance class.  I take a route through Union Square that passes by some of the nicest hotels in the city, and while the tourists gather on the sidewalk, dressed in their evening splendor, smelling like perfume and hair products, I push through them smelling like a Tom Brady’s jock strap on a Sunday.</p>
<p>Before any of you ladies or gentlemen get too excited (because I know Tom “Perfect Hair” Brady can elicit that kind of reaction), no one wants to jump my bones after yoga or dance.  Not even the +1.  I’m sweating like a fat kid in humidity, my hair is a tangled mess on my head and I generally have black streaks running down my face.  In short, I look like the lost member of KISS after a drug-amplified performance.</p>
<p>So being the hot mess that I am, I pick the tourist (guy or girl) in the douche-iest outfit, standing and smoking like they are just way too cool for this shit, and I rub right by them.  I make sure they get a sprinkle of sweat from my hair, can smell the stink of my skin, and just as they are about to launch a full-on assault, they realize that I am walking home.</p>
<p>“She actually lives here,” they think.  I’m wearing my iPod, unconcerned, and since they have been fed all sorts of crap about the Tenderloin, it’s fabled (and not-so-fabled) dangers, they look at me like maybe I’m one of the “dangerous” people they’ve been warned about.  And since I’m all of about 5’4” (maybe 5’5”) and as “hard” as Natalie Portman giving a Golden Globes speech, I enjoy this immensely.</p>
<p>I think the reason I enjoy it, is because my neighborhood genuinely terrifies some people.  They think that anywhere that doesn’t call to mind the bucolic avenues of happy town or the raging party of a college campus, is something to be feared or dismissed.  To them I say, “You’re missing out.”</p>
<p>Not only are some of the city’s best restaurants and bars within a few block radius of my apartment, there are the lesser-known gems as well.  Like the Lebanese café across the street, the Asian sports bar across the other street and the Mom ‘n Pop grocery stores that remember your name, the groceries you buy and any special requests you may have.</p>
<p>That’s not to say that I haven’t experienced unease in my neighborhood—there’s a crazy guy that sometimes hangs out on my corner, jingling a cup of change and walking into oncoming traffic, but overall, it’s got more perks than drawbacks.  I think I’ll keep it.</p>

Start function wbga_in_feed
Ending function wbga_in_feed: 1
Ending function wbga_filter: <p>As you all know, I am living in the ‘loin.  Well-meaning, yet slightly condescending friends of friends have corrected me several times, saying I <em>actually</em> live in the “tender-nob,” as if to say in a posh British accent, “Oh, stop being so hyperbolic.”</p>
<p>To them I say, “Bullshit.”  A) It’s only “hyperbolic” because you are assigning a judgment, value, or image to the “Tenderloin” that may or may not reflect the reality of my everyday experience; and B) If I hear gunshots (or a car backfiring) outside my window at 4am, I get to claim the Tenderloin, no matter how your image of my life looks.</p>
<p>For the uninitiated, the Tenderloin is the area of San Francisco where many of the city’s unfortunate are corralled into a space of three-square blocks (give or take a street corner or two).  There are police-operated cameras attached to light posts, drug deals that occur anyways and a plethora of shaky hookers willing to do just about anything if you fill their crack pipe.</p>
<p>There are also families with children and struggling artists and people in transition.  It is probably the city’s most diverse neighborhood.</p>
<p>The “tender-nob” is the invention of leasing agents trying to rent apartments on Geary (my street) as it extends from Union Square to Polk Street.  In reality, it doesn’t exist, but it gives white yuppies who can’t find an apartment anywhere else the promise of future gentrification.</p>
<p>So am I being hyperbolic when I say, “I live in the Tenderloin”?  I guess it would depend on why I’m “claiming” it.  If my purpose is to give an honest answer as to which section of the city I live, then, no.  If my purpose is to imply something about my everyday life experience, or simply to shock people, then I guess you could accuse me of exaggeration for effect.</p>
<p>And anyone who has ever read a word I write knows that I’m slightly prone to exaggeration.</p>
<p>For example, I don’t see the hockey jersey-wearing guy from the second floor every day, so I don’t really know how often he wears it.  Maybe it’s his Tuesday jersey and every time I see him, it happens to be Tuesday.  Or, it could be like the favored sweatshirt of my +1 that gets thrown on over whatever he’s wearing in the interest of warmth and comfort.</p>
<p>What’s that?  Oh, you want to know what a +1 is.  It’s the dude or chick that leaves a toothbrush at your place but isn’t your official “boyfriend” or “girlfriend”.  If you were to reply to an Evite, they would be your “+1”.</p>
<p>Saying, “the guy I’m dating,” or “seeing” or [insert whatever verb you happen to be –“ing”ing] is really too cumbersome, so I’ll employ the +1 reference whenever talking about him.  Which probably won’t be that often since I think he started reading my blog…and if he hasn’t, it will only be a matter of time before he does.  And really, getting his permission to talk about him would take away half of the fun.</p>
<p>So where was I?  Oh, the Tenderloin.  I live here.  And I think my very favorite part about it is when I walk home at night from either yoga or dance class.  I take a route through Union Square that passes by some of the nicest hotels in the city, and while the tourists gather on the sidewalk, dressed in their evening splendor, smelling like perfume and hair products, I push through them smelling like a Tom Brady’s jock strap on a Sunday.</p>
<p>Before any of you ladies or gentlemen get too excited (because I know Tom “Perfect Hair” Brady can elicit that kind of reaction), no one wants to jump my bones after yoga or dance.  Not even the +1.  I’m sweating like a fat kid in humidity, my hair is a tangled mess on my head and I generally have black streaks running down my face.  In short, I look like the lost member of KISS after a drug-amplified performance.</p>
<p>So being the hot mess that I am, I pick the tourist (guy or girl) in the douche-iest outfit, standing and smoking like they are just way too cool for this shit, and I rub right by them.  I make sure they get a sprinkle of sweat from my hair, can smell the stink of my skin, and just as they are about to launch a full-on assault, they realize that I am walking home.</p>
<p>“She actually lives here,” they think.  I’m wearing my iPod, unconcerned, and since they have been fed all sorts of crap about the Tenderloin, it’s fabled (and not-so-fabled) dangers, they look at me like maybe I’m one of the “dangerous” people they’ve been warned about.  And since I’m all of about 5’4” (maybe 5’5”) and as “hard” as Natalie Portman giving a Golden Globes speech, I enjoy this immensely.</p>
<p>I think the reason I enjoy it, is because my neighborhood genuinely terrifies some people.  They think that anywhere that doesn’t call to mind the bucolic avenues of happy town or the raging party of a college campus, is something to be feared or dismissed.  To them I say, “You’re missing out.”</p>
<p>Not only are some of the city’s best restaurants and bars within a few block radius of my apartment, there are the lesser-known gems as well.  Like the Lebanese café across the street, the Asian sports bar across the other street and the Mom ‘n Pop grocery stores that remember your name, the groceries you buy and any special requests you may have.</p>
<p>That’s not to say that I haven’t experienced unease in my neighborhood—there’s a crazy guy that sometimes hangs out on my corner, jingling a cup of change and walking into oncoming traffic, but overall, it’s got more perks than drawbacks.  I think I’ll keep it.</p>

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