My Very Own Blogetary (Blog: Web Log; etary or ary: engaged in or pertaining to)

Until it doesn’t work anymore. These days it’s barely consequential, as long as you have access to health care and are properly diagnosed and can get treatment. It’s a small butterfly shaped gland around your throat that helps the rest of your body function normally, known as your thyroid gland.

(Image and following information taken from this article http://www.medicinenet.com/hypothyroidism/article.htm and personal experience).

I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism in my 20s. The doctor said it was no big deal, but that it did account for my weight gain and loss of energy and apathy and depression. All it took was a simple blood test and then figuring out what dose of medication I would need of L-thyroxine or Synthroid to help my thyroid work correctly and get my body’s thyroid chemicals at the correct level.  As long as I got tested yearly, a simple blood test along with the other yearly tests normally covered by insurance, the doctor could continue writing the prescription, adjusting the medication according to what my body needed.

There were a few times when I was without medical insurance. Brief periods between when one job ended and another began with the 90 day waiting period for benefits. I may need to get retested, but I typically only went without my medication for a small period of time and was soon on it again. Sometimes I would pick up supplements at the health food store or drugstore that would supposedly help in between times. They were things like Irish Moss, Kelp, Raw Thyroid Gland or supplements with all three in them. I tried to make sure all the salt in the house was iodized and that I had plenty of fish (yes, there is a reason my body craves salt and it’s a real reason - it needs the iodine).  These periods of depending on outside sources for thyroid support were never very long, however, and typically I was back on regular medication within three months.

There was one time when I had a doctor that did not pay very close attention to my thyroid condition and just kept renewing my prescription without testing.  I knew something was wrong. I was depressed, lethargic and gaining weight. She thought I should explore anti-depressants and gastro-bypass surgery. I thought I was peri-menopausal. She finally re-tested my thyroid and adjusted my medication up. My emotions quit playing yoyo on me and I gained energy and lost weight and was a much happier individual. And it was a very small adjustment in my medication. But I went through months of hell before she thought to give me that test and adjust my medication.

I changed doctors after that, but when they give you that list of providers, they don’t tell you anything about them, whether they’ll really pay attention or not.  Whether they listen or not is not a question on the insurance form, right? Well, it didn’t matter too much because shortly after, my (former) employer called me into his office and said that due to budget cuts my medical and dental benefits were being taken away. I tried to get in to see my doctor one last time before the month was up, but couldn’t. Shortly after, my prescription ran out and my doctor wouldn’t renew it unless I came in for an exam and a blood test, which I couldn’t pay for without my insurance. I just couldn’t afford to.

I kept trying to look into paying for insurance on my own. Through my employer it had been $60/month, or about $15 taken out of each weekly paycheck. On my own, as an overweight female over 40 with previously diagnosed conditions, the monthly charge started at $200/month and went up from there.  I simply did not have that kind of money. I was not going to get a raise from my (former) employer (he’d already laid off other people as well as taking away my benefits) to make up the difference. My rent was going to go up again, while my paycheck was not.  I did what I typically do, railed at God and the Universe and everyone around me and then settled down to figure out what I could do. So, I decided to go back to trying out the supplements again and see what I could do through the public health system.
That didn’t really work over the long haul. The supplements only helped to a certain degree. Planned Parenthood could help me with my reproductive health needs but not anything else. Though I did not make enough money to pay for my own health care benefits, I made too much money for the public health system to help me. (Note: I find it ironic that my employers, who do not believe in socialized medicine or public welfare, basically forced me onto the public welfare system - sound like Wal Mart to anyone else?)

My body continued to deteriorate. I lost energy. My hair got brittle and thin. I gained weight. I had a difficult time getting restful sleep. One of the things that happens when your body doesn’t get enough T3 and T4 in your system is that the thyroid gland goes into overdrive trying to reproduce more. But for some reason, what it’s producing is not getting into your body. So it tries even harder, growing and swelling to try to keep the body working. To keep me alive. The thyroid gland is around the trachea, so as it swells, it makes it harder to breath and to get oxygen, harder to sleep at night when your tongue and throat typically relax.  According to Medicinenet.com, when this condition is allowed to deteriorate:

As the disease becomes more severe, there may be puffiness around the eyes, a slowing of the heart rate, a drop in body temperature, and heart failure. In its most profound form, severe hypothyroidism may lead to a life-threatening coma (myxedema coma). In a severely hypothyroid individual, a myxedema coma tends to be triggered by severe illness, surgery, stress, or traumatic injury. This condition requires hospitalization and immediate treatment with thyroid hormones given by injection.

Properly diagnosed, hypothyroidism can be easily and completely treated with thyroid hormone replacement. On the other hand, untreated hypothyroidism can lead to an enlarged heart (cardiomyopathy), worsening heart failure, and an accumulation of fluid around the lungs (pleural effusion) (http://www.medicinenet.com/hypothyroidism/page3.htm#toc5at).

I kept telling my (former) employer I needed benefits. I told him I was doing my best to take care of it on my own but that my deteriorating health was making it more and more difficult to make it to work on time and to function well. I tried to start eating better, but many times the cheaper foods in the grocery store are the ones with more additives and are less healthy. But I tried. I didn’t have the energy to walk around the block after dinner. Friends would tell me to buck up and “go for a walk, it’s good for you” and I would just stare in disbelief. I just didn’t have it and they didn’t get it.

I also didn’t have sick days, but I was calling in sick more often because some days I just needed to sleep for 12-16 hours.  So, I was making even less money. My employer would nod and smile. It didn’t cost him money and sometimes I would do some of my job from home, without pay, “just to help out.” One day I went in and seriously told him it was difficult to take a job seriously when I didn’t have health care through that job, hadn’t had a raise in years, and only had a week off per year (after eight years of employment). He avoided me for the rest of the week.

Keep in mind this former employer and his partner still had their own health care benefits, gym memberships, still worked on remodeling their homes, getting new cars, going on vacations and all that other stuff.

Two weeks later I lost it out right and told my (former) employer that I was tired of watching this happen when I didn’t have benefits. I was tired of seeing he and his business partner pocket cash payments (when people payed in cash, they split it between them and pocketed the money rather than record it and deposit in the bank) when the business and the employees were obviously suffering financially. So, because of this, because I was stupid enough to tell the little emperor that he, in fact, had no clothes, because I was honest, I was told I was being insubordinate and surly and was asked to leave. He told me my health was a personal problem I was bringing to work and it wasn’t his problem.

Now, go back up to that paragraph about what can happen with an untreated thyroid problem. Basically, I could die if this condition is left untreated and he was telling me he could care less. This is someone I have spent Christmas and Thanksgiving with. I had gone to his wedding. Held his daughters as babies and been to their birthday parties. I had known he and his wife for as long as I’ve lived in California - 14 years or so - and I had worked for him for eight of those years. I was letting him know how serious it was. I had been without my medication for a year and a half when he let me go. He didn’t care. It wasn’t his problem.

Well, he may not know it, but because I am now unemployed and my health has deteriorated so much, the public health system can now help me. The public health system that he rails against, the socialized medicine that he would rather not exist, the Planned Parenthoods and Free Clinics and other systems in place to help out people who can’t otherwise get health care, that he can’t stand to have his taxes go towards, well that’s what is paying for my health care now.(Anyone else flashing back on Scrooge’s words to the men seeking donations for the poor: “Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses?”).

Wednesday, when I was at Planned Parenthood, my thyroid is functioning at such a low level, my throat so swollen and lethargy so noticeable, its effect on my reproductive system so obvious, they can officially step in and help me now and can refer me to a provider. They can take the blood test and help me get the prescription. That is a blessing and I thank God and Universe for Planned Parenthood. For all I have to wait an hour or more every time I go, I always have good care when I go there. They take good care of me.

I am not out of the woods yet. I still don’t have my medication yet. An evening with friends tires me out like a Victorian lady with the consumption. I go for a walk and need to nap for an hour. And, I still need to wait for the results and then figure out how the referral works and get through that.  It’s scary and frustrating when you can feel your body not function the way it should and know what you need and not be able to get it.

It’s a small thing really, the thyroid gland, hardly worth noticing, until it quits working.

There is a part of me that bitterly wants to strike out at my former employer for this hardship and heartache he has caused me. I want to report him to every agency I can think of. I want him to go through what I have gone through. I want him to watch his life deteriorate as I have had to watch mine deteriorate because of decisions he made. The healthier part of me that still functions recognizes that this wouldn’t work. My best option is to continue doing what I’ve been doing and that is to walk away, step by step, and not look back. I learned this the hard way with my neighbor and former friend, Mike, next door. The more I rail at the person who “done me wrong” the less good it does me. Cuz those people don’t recognize that they’ve done wrong. They refuse to take responsibility for their own actions. The best I can do is take care of myself and get away from being around toxic energy sucks such as these people have become and move on with my life. It’s a slow process. When you’ve spent years of friendship and trust on someone it’s not easy to disengage. In the case of my former employer, I still do some freelance work through his company sometimes and I need that income. The sooner I find other income to replace that the better off I am, but in the meantime, I have to at least keep up a pretense of civility.

So, it’s a small thing, really, until it’s no longer a small thing. Then it’s huge.

I smelled Autumn today.

Saw her fair blue skies,

felt the kiss of her breeze on my cheek.

Read the Shadows on the wall.

And for the first time in months

wore shoes and socks.

Rachel V. Olivier

As I get older I come to realize more and more how trapped we all are inside our own heads. On Darkover (a world from a Marion Zimmer Bradley series), people are regularly born with telepathic abilities. In all sorts of stories, telepathic links are discovered between say the protagonist and their loved one or between a vampire and his or her sire or between family groups. But in real life, it’s not at all common. And the people who really do have the telepathic connections do their best to block those out most of the time.

Which means that most of us are stuck mostly in our heads most of the time, and unless we express ourselves verbally, or via the written word, or betray ourselves with body language, no one will ever really know what’s going on inside our heads.  This is one of the reasons that our perception of ourselves will always vary somewhat from the perceptions that our friends, family, enemies, etc have of us.
Case in point - fashion obsessions.  Six months ago, say, in March, you could have been obsessing over finding the perfect vintage tapestry heel that would match the sun dress you’d found in a vintage shop.  It was going to be your spring and summer garden party outfit.  At first you didn’t talk about it, just looked on the internet, paged through magazines, and looked everytime you ducked into a store that contained shoes, even if it happened to be Lady Footlocker.  After a while, your friends begin to notice you’re on a quest and help you a bit, laugh at you a bit and then settle on you this new tag of “obsessed with those tapestry pumps.”

Meanwhile, you may or may not still occasionally look for those pumps, but you’ve moved on. You ended up wearing the taupe sandals anyway. It is now August. You’ve decided you need to find the perfect pair of jeans to wear for autumn and winter and you’d rather spend time in ballet flats because you’re tired of keeping up your pedicure. But, again, you haven’t said anything. You’re just going through life, paging through magazines, looking through websites, ducking into stores whenever you see a sale sign. And while you’re friends think they’re helping you find that tapestry heel, you’re now looking for the perfect animal print ballet flat with the perfect fit midrise jean. And when it finally comes out, it may feel to them that you’ve changed the rules on them, but really, you just moved on, changed obsessions.  And it will take a while for your friends’ perceptions of you to change and keep up with that.

It’s your own little you-centric world because where else can you be but in your own head? I mean, we go to school in part to learn about the world, but also to be somewhat socialized, taught to interact in it and with other people. Parents or teachers try to get us to see the world from other points of view so that we aren’t so me-centric, but in the end, it’s what we fall back on. It’s what we know.  Your friends who are helping you shoe shop could themselves be obsessing over the perfect belt or top, but since they’re expending energy helping you, you just assume they’re just as obsessed with shoes as you are, unless they let you know differently or you pull out of yourself enough to notice that everytime you’re looking for pumps, they’re looking at belts.

Shoes, belts, tops, jeans, are all just examples though.  A friend asks how you’re doing and you reply with “Fine, same old, same old,” because to you there doesn’t seem to be anything new to report. You haven’t, say, seen any new movies, met anyone new, or gotten a new job.  But inside you’re seething.  How is rent going to be paid? When can you take the dog to the vet? Will you need to move closer to your parents to take care of them?  What should you do with your main character in the second act of the play you’re writing? Should you try to put the window screen in yourself or ask for help and if you ask for help, who do you ask and what kind of favor will you owe them? And is it really the end of the world as you know it or will you be fine?

And that is not “the same old, same old.” That is a very active life. But that’s not what you share, so as far as your friends know, you’re still obsessed with those tapestry heels. And since they have been very intertwined in their own obsessions, for all you know, they’re still obsessed with finding a nice pair of summer sandals as well.  So you’re perception of them and their perception of you is nothing like how you perceive yourselves.

So, what they think they say to you may not actually be what you think you hear them say.

And we all sink back into our self-centric lives and obsessions, bumbling about blindly with one another.

I’ve been woefully lax in my participation in Reid’s 500 Word Challenge on MySpace. So, I decided to make an effort this time and even though it’s still coming in late, here’s the entry. The first line given last Monday was: Normal people have it easy.

Normal People

“Normal people have it easy. It’s never going to be easy for you.” My da’ touched my nose with his finger. “But it’ll be simple.”

This was just as bad as Mum telling me I’d always be “distinctively attractive.” I snorted and dragged my backpack up two flights of stairs to my room in the attic where I threw myself on my bed in a huff.

Bedroom windows facing all eight directions of the compass showed me mountains, lakes, rivers, fields ready for harvest, and the town Smithie, Jerold’s Da’. A grand room for a grand future.

All I wanted was to go to the school dance and fit in for once.

But, I was Sevanna – seventh child of the seventh child, born on the seventh day of the week. Gifted with being instinctively intuitive – and Cursed; Saturday’s Child must work for a living. Reluctantly, I opened my school books and settled in to do my homework, absentmindedly twirling my hair round my wand, thinking about Jerold, and dances, and being beautiful.

#

“Sevanna! Sevanna! Open the door!” As from far away, I heard pounding. I realized I’d been studying for hours. The sun was setting behind the tallest peak of the range that lay to the west. I tripped over my school robes to reach the door before it splintered open.

“What did you do!” Dad’s eyes were ablaze with alarm and fear as he looked down on me. Silently, I ticked through everything I’d done that day to see what I might be in trouble for now. As the youngest, it happened a lot, though these days my brothers and sisters were gone and not likely to get me into any trouble. My stomach knotted as I thought of traded lunches and passed notes in class.

“I don’t know. What?”

“First, put your wand away!”

I looked down and noticed sprinkles of pink, lavender, gold, and blue trailing from the tip and finding their way across the floor and down cracks into the house below or out the window, following their own little courses to who knows where. Hastily I put away my wand.

Da’ took a deep breath.

“Did you remember to ground and center before starting your homework?”

“I was just reading!”

“Honey, what’s going on!” Mum’s voice floated up the twisted stair case, worry hanging on every word. “I saw sparks coming from Sevanna’s room-“ Mum looked at me in alarm. The same shock and fear registering on her face as on Da’s. Wordlessly, Mum turned me around to face the mirror on the closet door.

Tendrils of gold hair framed a face cleared of acne, refined, having lost all traces of baby fat. Full lashes framed sparkling green eyes that had no use for glasses. And the dress; gossamer as moonlight, the skirt floated as I walked. Downstairs I heard a knock at the door.

“Is Sevanna ready for the dance?” Jerold’s voice floated up to the ears of my shocked and nervous parents.

My contribution to Reid’s 500 word challenge and third in my little series (The first being Zombie Juice and the second being Getting Out On Time):

“Well, first off, I’d like to thank myself, without whom this moment would mean nothing.”

The dark humor didn’t relieve the black hole gnawing at my stomach. I should have saved the oxygen.

True to Trixie-form, I’d fallen into a hole so far down no light traveled down here. I’d been taking some samples and enjoying the earthrise. Since abandoning Earth to the zombies, there’d been lots of discussion on expanding the moon colony. I’m just a peon research assistant – or research ass as they call us – doing my rotation here. So it wasn’t me doing the discussing, but it was me going out on the field to collect even more useless samples to see how the moon could be changed to accommodate more people.

One thing I have to say – it’s quiet out in space – except for the occasional buzz of the transmitter. I guess that’s why I was thrown so completely by the sharp high pitched noise assaulting my ears. I had been gathering dust at the edge of a deep crater and the screech threw me for a loop. Tripping, I tumbled across my gear and weighed down by it, went down the hole.

Floating down happens more quickly than you think.

It was a little like being Alice in Wonderland. On earth the gravity would have killed me by the time I crashed to the bottom, but the earth’s gravity didn’t work the same on this rock.

The readouts on my helmet told me that I had some oxygen left before running out. The question was, was it enough to sustain me while I climbed out. Or should I wait here for help to come.

I tapped on my receiver again, just in case. No signal. I squashed down the fear that the worst had happened at the station and instead focused on the task at hand.

The single light from my helmet showed me the hole was two meters in diameter and that it curved to become a tunnel. Climb or explore? Above – possible catastrophe and maybe zombies. Ahead – procrastination and possible discovery. There were no coins to flip, so I decided to explore. I wanted to be able to get back, sure, but who knew what was down here. Cheese?

My breathing sounded loud in my ears as I followed the tunnel, each foot weighing more with each step – like gravity was returning. Ghostly steps (fear or real?) behind me urged me on.

I switched off my helmlight to make sure, but there WAS light at the end of the tunnel. It pulsed; a tangible barrier raking my body like an energy probe.

Pushing through, I found the barrier gave way to a series of caverns filled with particles of light sparkling from the rock, beaming down on a variety of flora and fauna never seen before on earth. Readouts showed a good oxygen mix. I unclipped my helmet.

“Welcome my child.” Tinkling glass greeted me as I met the Man in the Moon.

Reid, on MySpace, hosts a 500 word challenge. He gives out the first sentence and we gotta week to figure it out. Here’s my contribution:

There it finally was, at the end of the alley of Louisiana Oaks, our way out, or so we hoped. 

The Zombie Juice – that elixir we hoped would keep us immune from the walking dead – had lost its efficacy.  Living, breathing humans were slowly being replaced by rotted shuffling corpses.  Only the Zombie Juice held them back from devouring us and spreading the virus.  Vile as it was, it had worked for a solid twenty years before things – rancid things – went further up the river than they already were. 

Johnson had been the first to notice.  He had introduced me to the Zombie Martini way back when.  There was a woman he used to tell stories about.  One day, instead of ignoring him and sitting in a corner as she always did, she came over – what was left of her nostrils flaring dangerously.

“You smell fresh today, Johnson,” she purred through rotten teeth.  “Haven’t had your drink?”

Only, he was drinking.  The bartender topped it off in a hurry, but that didn’t work for long.

That was the beginning of the end. Lab work ups showed human cells were evolving into corpses just by living around zombies.  Limbic systems were mutating to accept nonliving coexistence where it hadn’t been acceptable before. There was nothing we could do to stop it – except leave.

That was when the space station was built and a moon colony was set up as an outpost to guard against zombies shipping offworld. Screenings were developed to keep zombies and the freshly dead from boarding ships.  Protests ignited globally causing riots and speeches on the rights of the nonliving.  Lines were drawn and sides taken.  In the end, though, there was only one choice.

The last of the spaceships had left weeks ago – leaving one final ship behind for any stragglers.  Military personnel had combed the planet disabling systems that might help the zombies achieve space travel.  For once, humankind was trying to be responsible and not take its garbage with it.

I tried to check through my bag as we jogged up the rampway of the ship that had landed at the end of alleyway, Johnson next to me muttering to me to hurry along.  We were the last pickups. At the bottom of my bag I saw an emergency vial of Zombie Juice I’d forgotten I had. I was going to throw it out but hesitated. Just in case, I stuck the vial in my pocket.

Once the hatch was closed, goods stowed and passengers strapped in, the ship took off, bound for the orbiting space station on the far side of the moon. I looked over at Johnson, prepared to congratulate him on our making it.  Hairs sprang at the back of my neck as I saw the unpleasant grin on his face, smelled the unmistakable odor.

“You’re smelling awfully fresh today, Sandy.”

I stuck my hand in my pocket, wondering how long I could keep him distracted, and what I would do then.

Again, Reid over on MySpace is doing a 500 word challenge.  Don’t know what it is about these, but they sure do get my creative juices going.  This particular challenge was to use the first sentence: There’s nothing as tempting as a locked door.
There’s nothing as tempting as a locked door. My tail twitched as I contemplated it. Luckily for me, my Companion and I had just moved into a place that had a door handle, not a door knob, and the deadbolt was a handle that turned as well. Added to this was the fact that the door opened OUT.

And after all, that IS where I wanted to be.

My Companion was out for the day and had odd ideas about keeping me safely inside, but I could smell the scents seeping beneath the door. Feline, canine, human, and just a tiny, little hint of - yes, there it was - rodent.

I scoped the territory and figured out my plan of action. Though boxes were still all about, the furniture was basically where it ought to be. I leapt into the easy chair, up to the back, leveraged over to the cabinet that She usually shooed me off of and stepped carefully over her knickknacks to the door handle.

I had watched Her open and close this door several times, that part was easy. Just pushing the handle to the side as far as I could get it would pop open the door - IF it was unlocked. The lock was a little different. It was smaller. I had seen her turn it, but she had used those dratted opposable thumbs of hers. I was going to need to put weight on one of the ends and hope it was the correct end.

I placed one paw up on the handle for balance and reached over with the other paw to push on the lock handle.

Nothing.

I pushed in the other direction.

It wasn’t budging.

It was going to mess with my balance, but after placing one paw on one end of the deadbolt handle, I removed my paw from the door handle and carefully pushed down on the lock handle with both paws and all my weight. It took a while, but I am rather large. She has even called me handsome. I had the muscle to do it.

I could feel the lock shift and too late realized I was shifting with it, falling from the cabinet to the floor below in a tumble of fur and whiskers, taking several knickknacks with me by the sound of it.

But I had succeeded. I had heard the lock click open.

Picking carefully through the rubble, I again jumped to chair, chair back and then to the cabinet.

The smell of rodent was getting stronger now. I was beginning to drool, which is never attractive. It was imperative I open the door NOW. Balance was of the utmost necessity. Carefully, I placed my paws up on the door handle and PUSHED with all my weight.

Click.

My heart raced at my impending freedom!

But what’s this?

“I must have left the door unlocked! Hi, Mr. Whiskers, what have you done now? Mustn’t get out. Let’s get you some dinner.”

Dried food - AGAIN.

This was written for 500 word writing contest over on Reid’s blog.  You should check it out because some of the offerings there are much better than this. But it was fun to write, so I thought I would share it here.

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Zombie juice is an acquired taste.  There’s not much call for it these days ‘cept as a mixer for your drinks.  Kind of gives it a dead, decomposing flavor. Helps to stick in a piece of rotting fruit.  But back in the day, it was drink it or die, and then rot for the next 20 years waiting to lose consciousness while ya watched life pass ya by and everyone ya used to know tried to ignore your smell, and you’d try to ignore how tasty they all smelled. But that was then. This is now. 

Buy me a drink? Why thankee!  I’ll have a gin and Z with a rotted twist please. You? Bartender - gin and tonic for the nice lady here.

Here. Take a load off. I’ll tell you about the time I met someone who refused to drink the ol’ Z.  She was a dem fine woman.  Tall, proud, handsome, too.  Wasn’t going to let no Zombie nuisance get her down. No, siree.  Back then people had their own stash at home to take once or twice a day, keep the zombies at bay and from nosin’ them out.  But lotta people started mixin’ it with stuff back then to try to choke it down better.  But not her.  She was one of them, what you call, con - o - sewers.  Said she’d hold out for the vaccine the govment kept sayin’ it was comin’ out with anytime soon.  She’d come in here. Sniff. Sit far away as possible from any freshly dead, looking down her nose at’em.  Then talk loudly about how her husband the famous doctor was workin’ on his own - wattya call it - formula, and that they’d have it before anyone else. Not very politic if you ask me.

But she didn’t ask me. 

One day she come in here and oh the stench!  It’s like she’d bathed in parfoom. That o-da-toilet.  Well she smelled like a toilet alright.  And the make up was thick.  Like she’d put it on with a butter knife.  She sat down in the corner with all the other snooty livin’ folks and you never saw’em clear out so fast! Seems she’d'a waited one day too long for that vaccine of hers.  Trusted a little too much in that dang fool quack of a husband of hers, too.  Seems that he got all excited.  Said he’d found not only a vaccine but a cure for zombie-ism.

Right. Like there’s a cure for death.

He needed a test subject.  Chose himself, and because she was such a nag and busy braggin’ about it, his wife.  Well wouldn’t you know it, that there formula didn’t prevent zombie-ism - it CAUSED it - skipping over the step of actually bein’ bit or scratched by said zombie.  Though there’s somethin’ to be said for skippin’ over that step (it is pretty gruesome if ya ask me), it doesn’t do nothin’ ta prevent or cure it.  Ah, yes! Dem fine woman! 

Like to change your order?

Plastic Surgery on the Basics of Life or
Liposuction in the City of Lost Dreams

Scalpel poised above  –
emergency operation gots to be done!
STAT! ASAP!
I mean RIGHT NOW!
(How I hate those words.)
Infusion of hope prescribed —
excision from this dreariness.
Soul sucking demands on a
dream-ridden, aged princess.

Credit? Cash? Coverage?
Give’r an aspirin and a bandage.
Maybe a beer ….
Maybe one or two –
A patch of anesthesia to see her through.
This is no great affliction.

And then?
What price gratification?
Huge metal deathmonsters?
Prime property acquisition?
Class conscious status symbols
slapped on a gaping wound.

Addictive elitism stumbles on her crutches.
Ancient and treacherous,
near impossible to escape her clutches.
Staying afloat – don’t want to drown.
This is a bright and brittle
One-trick pony kind of town.

Life-rings are limited
to the wealthy and connected.
Those of us who ride the bus
are bound to be rejected.

Beer –
It will have to be beer.

Beer it is then.

by Rachel V. Olivier

Instead of following my typical Saturday routine of sleeping in, watching cartoons and doing dishes and laundry, I got up early and went with a friend to a self-defense class in Silverlake.   We had signed up because another mutual friend of ours had been involved in an altercation a couple of months back and had felt helpless when facing such a situation.  So, in solidarity, we all decided to go and learn how to take care of ourselves.  That original mutual friend wasn’t able to make it, but we other two decided to go and bring back what knowledge we could until we could go again and take her with us.

The self-defense class was being held at a dojo that normally teaches things like Brasilian Ju Jitsu, Chi Gong, and Kendo, but also occasionally holds self-defense seminars like the one we were going to. I have not been to a gym in years, AGES in fact.  The space was relatively small.  The women’s locker room was a room with a sink, a toilet, and some lockers.  We got there a little early to change. I bought yoga pants for the occasion, not wanting to appear like a dork in my old sweats, and dutifully exchanged sandals for socks and tennis shoes….Then was told we do this all barefoot and so took off the socks and tennis shoes I had dutifully carried with me to the dojo.

Though there was no cost for the class, there was a suggested donation of $10-$25/person, and after slipping my yuppie food coupon in the envelope I read through the waiver and information form that was passed to me.  Most of the women were simply signing the form and turning it in. Knowing I was the most out of shape person there (it was pretty obvious), I decided to take a closer gander.  It was kind of alarming to read.  My friend had taken classes here so I knew she felt safe with these instructors, and I knew this waiver was common sense - that I was taking this class at my own risk and was responsible for knowing my own limits - but I still gulped as I signed and hoped there would be no broken bones or dislocated shoulders, etc., etc., etc.

Now one of the reasons I don’t take exercise classes or go to gyms is the whole watching politics of the whole thing.  And I really don’t like being around “those girls.”  If you know who “those girls” are, I don’t have to explain. If you don’t know who “those girls” are, then never mind. You’re better off not knowing. Continue in your ignorance. 

So, when the teacher told us to go onto the mats and stretch my first thought was, “huh - haven’t done that in while, we’ll see how it goes” and “oh no - those girls are here - I’m going to feel nothing but awkward.”  But being with a friend helped as we talked with each other and didn’t worry about “those girls”.  I stretched, drawing on old, old memories of what stretches I knew.  And I was a lot more limber than I thought, so that was good.  The stretching period seemed to go on forever and I ran out of ideas, so eventually my friend and I ended up just chatting while we waited for the class to start.  Looking around, it was a full room.

We started with jumping jacks “just ot get the heart pumping”.  I hate jumping jacks.  I’ve ALWAYS hated jumping jacks.  In fact, jumping jacks do not like me, either.  So we did that for way too long while I had to stare at my body bouncing up and down in the mirror (did I mention the huge mirror along the wall?  I made sure I was in the back row - as far away from the mirror as possible). Then did some other kicking, getting your heart going exercises.  And while I know they were necessary, I kept wondering “okay, so in sports you’re supposed to push your limits, but I think I’ve reached my limit and to be safely within that waiver I really should quit now….shouldn’ I?”  And then there were “those girls.” Old fears of looking ridiculous in front of “those girls” began to surface.  It was a conundrum. I decided keeping my eyes focused on the teacher and his assistants would be the best thing I could do.

For the first half of the class we concentrated on how to respond to someone who is too close in our space. How to safely pull out of grip and get away, or if more force was necessary how to use the momentum of jerking out of a grip to return with an elbow jab or a kick.  We were given nice big hand cushions to practice kicking and punching and positioning.  It was all a matter of speed and leverage.  The instructor and assistants moved around the classroom to correct us and check our moves as we went along.  Or sometimes be the assailant so we could feel what it would be like against a guy and not another woman who’s trying not to hurt you. My friend and I took turns playing victim and assailant (which was a trick as she is petite and I am rather big, but we worked it out).  And occasionally it was fun to look around the room and watch some of the other women.  We were all getting into it.  “Grrrr -I’m going to get you!” One woman would lurch towards her friend who would respond with the practiced moves and then trade places. There was one move that included jamming your elbow down between your body and the assailant’s face when they grabbed you. I got a squeal from my friend, “Ew, Rachel!  YOu have sweaty hair!”  (Oh yeah, did I tell you? I sweat like a pig.)

It was a lot fun, getting aggressions out by using kicks and punches on pads that could take them.  I think we all relieved a lot of stress.  I had totally forgotten about those girls.  It was all speed and leverage (Cap’n Sparrow and Will Turner could have told us that), and getting it down right.

The second half of the class, after a break and some intense water drinking, the instructor had us do jumping jacks - AGAIN - and reviewed the moves we had just learned, demonstrating how they followed through into one one routine.  First, hands up, open, creating space between you and the attacker and making it obvious to other people you don’t want that person in your space. Then, if they grab your wrist how to move out of that (and then run), then to an elbow punch, kick, another elbow punch (and then run), and then how to leverage out of a body grab.  Then he showed us how to move out of body grab and leverage the attacker onto the ground. That was a little more complex, and a little more real. Could we really flip someone onto the ground like that? Suddenly, we were all working harder, trying to remember which way to step, how to place our hands, our hips, our feet.  We were all becoming studious good girls.

The instructor called a halt and reviewed the moves again and said, “But what if he keeps hold of you still and takes you down?” And then called over someone to demonstrate another move. “Now we’re going to show what you can do when you’re down.”  Watching the male instructor as he pinned the female student to the ground for the demonstration, we all suddenly got serious.  You could hear a pin drop.  The fans whirred.  We were all thinking, “F*ck, this really could happen. It really could get this far. What then?”  The instructor could feel the tension in the room and was quick to point out that we had options, depending on where the attacker’s legs and arms were.  We could, theoretically, get out of these situations. We learned a couple of moves to get out of threatening positions then, but the laughter was strained now.  We were more serious in our practices.  The assistants made a point of making sure we all knew how to move hands, knees, hips, and ankles against male bodies, so we could get the leverage to get up and run away. We practiced and practiced and practiced, until finally the instructor called a halt.  I was glad.  I needed more practice, by my knee was finally telling me it had had enough.

It was the end of the session, but it was obvious that here there were women who would want to learn more. The classroom was full, almost no mat space left. He might teach more classes more often, or even more advanced. And he told us that obviously we have to practice more on our own. After a round of crunches and leg lifts (now those I don’t mind), the instructor let us go.

That was Saturday.  I’m still walking like a pirate today (I went to see At World’s End yesterday and my friend was laughing at my gimp) as my knee did not like all that activity all at once, but it’s a good reminder of the physicality needed to fend someone off.  It would be a good class to take again. And I recommend others to take similar classes wherever you are.  Don’t feel self-conscious, just do it.  Many women end up being taken advantage of because they don’t want to make a scene or feel too self-conscious about themselves to take a class or do something about a threatening situation.  I was one of the oldest, heaviest women in the class and I was able to learn things there. There were also some wee, petite women and everyone inbetween.  If you can, just do it.