standing out, leaping in

I once had to get a restraining order against my ex boyfriend. Let me explain. (No, there is too much. Let me sum up.)
I broke up with this guy and he was furious. He sent me angry emails and texts. I blocked his email address and phone number.
He stole my social security number and used it to call the cell phone company's automated system and get my phone shut off, multiple times. I changed my phone number and my social security number.
He sent me increasingly baffling and threatening emails, texts, and messages through his friends. I sent him one message, asking him to leave me alone.

He didn't.

His messages became even more more disturbing and bizarre. He threatened to make, and then actually made, a humiliating and vulgar web site about me. I filed for a restraining order. I was awarded a temporary order until the hearing, a few weeks later.
A couple days after I got the temporary order, but before he had been served, he showed up at my apartment late at night and pounded on my door. I turned on the shower and called 911, but he was gone by the time the police arrived.

I got a lawyer. He had me re-file the restraining order, listing every single event independently instead of just writing "he is harassing me." I paid a process server to track my ex down and serve him with the temporary restraining order, once it was awarded.

I went to court. Maximum restraining order granted. I celebrated, figuring he would leave me alone now.

He didn't.

It took two more court dates and a warrant for him to finally leave me alone.


Throughout all of this my lawyer insisted that I go to the police and file a report every time I heard from my ex, so that when we went to court there would be a clear paper trail and evidence that I was actively trying to get my ex to leave me alone.

I am not exaggerating when I tell you that every time I showed up at the police station to file a report, I got some serious pushback. I would show up with my folder of emails and they would roll their eyes at me. They would huff and sigh and begrudgingly give me paperwork to fill out. The said things like "How do we even know this is really from him?" and "He hasn't beaten you yet, so...." and "But do you actually think he's going to hurt you?" and "If he's not local he probably wouldn't come all the way here just for you." and "He probably has a new girlfriend and isn't interested in you anymore."

Not making this up. Those are things they really said to me.

I had gotten a restraining order because I was afraid that my ex would hurt me or rape me or kill me. I was the victim, dutifully following the law and trying to do the right things. The police were supposed to protect me and instead they doubted me, questioned me, and shamed me.

The same thing happened when I reported my rape.
I did all of the things that you say you'll never do. I didn't scream for help. I didn't go to the police. I ran back to the hotel and took a shower and then flew home a couple hours later. I felt confused and panicked. I didn't know what to call what had happened to me and it took urging from my loved ones for me to even report it.

I had a rape kit done the day after my rape, after I had already showered. I reported the rape to the police two days later. I told the detective my story over the phone, and then a few weeks later in person. They asked me what I was wearing that night. They asked me what "other" substances I had been on (besides alcohol). They asked me if I had flirted, if I had liked the guy. They asked my friends if they had heard me scream, if I "do this often," and if I'm a risk taker. They told me that my case would probably never go anywhere.

Somehow we live in a world where victims are questioned and doubted. It is enraging when it happens about something as clear-cut as a restraining order violation. It is downright horrifying when it happens about a rape.

After I was raped I felt overwhelmingly guilty and confused. I felt dirty and shameful, like I had brought this upon myself. I felt embarrassed and weak because I didn't fight or scream or go to the police straight away. I felt like my friends probably thought I was being too dramatic.

Fortunately for me I have had overwhelming support from friends, family, and even strangers. I had an advocate, a psychiatrist, and a trauma counselor. And everyone confirmed that it was not my fault. I was the victim. No matter what I wore or drank or whether or not I called for help or pushed him away, it was not my fault.

In my head I know this, I do. But here's also still a deep, dark part of myself that thinks "Well...."
From what I've learned, this is pretty common.

Our society does a lot of victim-blaming, victim-doubting, and victim-shaming. The thing about victims is that we often already blame, doubt, and feel ashamed of ourselves all on our own. That's what abuse and rape do to a person. Even if everyone I know tells me that they are absolutely sure that my rape wasn't my fault, and even if the law says that, and even if I intellectually know that, I still feel like it was. It comes with the territory.

That's why these public cases break my heart. Victims in high profile cases have their credibility dragged through the mud while their abusers are lauded and it makes me die a little inside. I am surviving on a daily basis. I am living as a victim of abuse and rape and it's not as easy as I try to make it look. What if I had to do that, and endure seeing the world at large adore my abuser and doubt, shame, and blame me? That, my friends, is a horrifying scenario and the reason I'm not asleep right now.
How can anyone sleep in a world where this is not only possible, but it is typical?

As much as I would like to close the book on my experience and let my successful completion of trauma counseling act as a benchmark for a new chapter in my life, I'm now sure I can't do that. I signed up for a program (at the same place where I did trauma counseling) to learn about being on their board of presenters who speak out against rape and abuse. I'm afraid, but I'm going to do it. Sometimes I collapse on my bed and say "I can't do this. It's too much for one little person," but most of the time I recognize how lucky I am to have had so much support and it makes me feel like this experience has made me feel stronger than other victims might feel. Like maybe I could even speak up for victims, or stand out for victims. But I guess if you know me you would probably agree that I'd prefer to say that I can leap for victims.

A Worrisome Bump

Less than two weeks into this brand new year for which I had such sky high hopes, I developed something worrisome on a rather worrisome area.
You should probably stop reading this if you'd like to be sexually attracted to me ever in the future. Oh, no takers? FINE THEN, CARRY ON.

It was a bump. A worrisome bump on my behind.

A worrisome bump on my behind that HURT like hell. I noticed it late one night, but I decided to, y'know, wait and see how it looked in the morning because it'll probably be fine and come ON, Universe, you can't possibly be serious with this bullshit.

And then the next morning the bump was bigger and also more painful. I limped to the bathroom and examined it in the mirror all contorted-like, as one might when trying to examine one's own tush. In the mirror I could plainly see that my right arse cheek had turned an angry bright red color.

So... yikes.

I decided to throw modesty to the wind and hauled my painful hiney over to Urgent Care where I was told that my worrisome bump was actually a worrisome ABSCESS on my butt cheek that needed to be incised and drained right now RIGHTNOW.

And that is how I found myself lying facedown on an exam table with my ASS ON FULL DISPLAY.

The (very kind and professional) doctor incised and drained the abscess and covered it with gauze, while the (very nice and understanding) medical assistant told me they saw things like this all the time. They sent me on my way with some painkillers and heavy hitter antibiotics.

The next day, I found out the culture of my abscess had grown MRSA. Because, why the hell not? Of course 2013 started out with a nice case of BUTT MRSA. Of course.
I really don't know how I got it. I have excellent hygiene and I'm persnickety about hand washing. I work in healthcare, but not in a hospital. I do wound care, but it's not like I ever touch my patients AND THEN TOUCH MY BUTT. So I dunno. Perhaps it was from a toilet seat. Which makes me feel like, okay, I guess I can't ever sit on a one ever again, even with the flimsy paper guard. And I definitely feel like I'm FOREVER UNCLEAN.

The doctor emailed me the "decontamination guidelines" and I had to go back to the pharmacy for some special nose cream and fancy body cleanser. Then I had to call my supervisor and go on mandatory sick leave. And then I had to set fire to wash all of my towels and clothing.

Everything's fine. I'm fine. The abscess has healed, the pain is gone, and I'm done with my antibiotics and my decontamination process.

But, MRSA!
BUTT MRSA!

I just don't even. So, 2013, that's how it's going to be, huh?

The Lie of Omission

I hate lying. Well, more specifically, I hate being lied to. I hate it when lies affect my life. I hesitate to choose one particular form of lying over another as my most abhorred, but if I were forced to pick I would probably say The Lie of Omission.

One of the biggest fights KC and I got into before we broke up was an epic battle over him wanting to hang out with his ex girlfriend. I actually wrote a sulky, emo post about it at the time. Ugh. Makes me queasy just rereading it. I remember how hurt and upset I was, and also how confused and embarrassed I felt because I just couldn't figure out WHY I had such a huge problem with it. KC was discussing it with me before he hung out with her, so what the hell was my deal? Like most of my emotional issues, I assumed it had something to do with my Crazy Ex. After you're with someone like that train wreck into crazytown, I think it can be particularly difficult to distinguish what are actual Valid Concerns and what is related to having PTSD from dating an emotionally abusive sociopath.

I was uncomfortable with the idea of KC spending time with his ex girlfriend. I tried to talk to him about it, and he got angry and accused me of not trusting him. Then he revealed that while she was in town, his ex girlfriend and had an "extra ticket" to a show on Saturday night and wanted him to go with her. And, by the way, he had been talking to her on the phone regularly and hadn't told me because he knew it was upset me.

And then I was like woah woah pump yo brakes, dude. Because THAT RIGHT THERE is exactly why I HATE HATE HATE The Lie of Omission. He didn't bring up the fact that he was doing something that would upset me because... he knew it would upset me. Here I was, puttering along, thinking we had an open, honest relationship, and KC was actively keeping something from me-- something that he thought would upset me. Whether or not the thing being kept from me WOULD HAVE upset me becomes irrelevant at this point, because I will always always ALWAYS be seventy six GABILLION more times upset when I discover that I was lied to about something and then found out the truth later.

KC's response? "Well, you never asked."

Which brings me to my point, four hundred words in: The Lie of Omission is a sneaky, manipulative lie.

The Lie of Omission turns the tables and makes you feel like it was somehow YOUR fault for not asking the SPECIFIC QUESTION that would bring it to light. The burden of truth is shifted to the LIEE instead of the LIAR. Apparently it was MY responsibility to ASK KC, "Hey, any chance you've been chatting with your ex girlfriend recently?" I CALL SHENANIGANS.

I'm going to be thirty this year, and it has taken me THIS LONG to pinpoint exactly what bothers me about The Lie of Omission. And yet I have been omission lied to for so many BIG DEALS, that now I have a categorically insane list of questions I feel like I have to ask any guy I date:
Are you married?
Have you ever been married?
Do you have a girlfriend?
Do you have a job?
Are you homeless?
Do you have any kids?
Is there a lady out there currently pregnant with your child?

Most guys look at me pretty strangely when I come out straight out gate with that litany of queries. But trust me, it wouldn't be on my list IF IT HAD NOT HAPPENED.

I dated my Crazy Ex for a FULL MONTH before he told me he had a two year old child. I didn't find out that he was married (and cheating on his wife) when we first met until after we broke up (and they were divorced).
I had another dude tell me he didn't have any kids, and two weeks later I found out that he had a pregnant ex girlfriend.
His excuse? "Well, you didn't ask."

And this past weekend, apparently I made another grievous error. I went out to a club with my lovely lady friends, we ended up joining in with some gentlemen there for a dude's bachelor party. There was one guy in particular who spent the entire evening flirting with me, dancing with me, and generally being rather touchy-feely. At the end of the night, he said "Yeah, sorry you got the wrong impression, but I'm engaged." Not sorry IF you got the wrong impression, sorry YOU GOT the wrong impression. Burden of truth: SHIFTED TO ME. Silly little woman, you thought the dude trying to rub his body all over you was available? Tsk tsk.

I told the dude "Hey, if you're engaged, you might not want to grind up on girls at the club. Just an idea [sarcastic jazz hands]. Also, I feel kind of sorry for your fiance." And then I tossed my hair and got the hell out of there before I burst into furious tears. I felt embarrassed and angry and like I had made a huge error in judgment. But then my friends assured me that, no, our flirtation WAS NOT all in my head. I had witnesses to the fact that he had been CLEARLY pursuing me and chatting me up. AND, I remembered later, when the DJ said "All the single people put ya hands up!" HE PUT HIS HANDS UP.

But his douchey "Sorry you got the wrong impression" comment had made me feel like it was somehow MY FAULT that I didn't know he was engaged. Because The Lie of Omission is sneaky and manipulative.

Are you engaged? has now been added to my list of questions. Because I don't care how ridiculous I'm going to appear as long as it means that I have some defense against The Lie of Omission. There won't be another "Well, you didn't ask" situation if I can help it. So help me, I WILL ASK.
Because the best defense against manipulative douchebaggery? Being one step ahead of the douchebags.

WELL THEN

So. As I've mentioned, I've been trying my hand at online dating. It's been... interesting. If nothing else I've gotten an eye-opening lesson in the quality of single dudes out there. Not high quality, is what I've found so far. If I were to compare them to, say, dinner ingredients, I might tell you that you wouldn't want to make a formal meal with these guys as the entree. You'd boil them down to make guy stock for bullion cubes or deep fry them and dip them in ranch dressing. You wouldn't want to BRING OUT the flavor of these guys, is all I'm saying. You'd want to suppress it, and probably heavily season it. You'd probably want to have a few drinks with the meal in order to make it palatable, which, incidentally, is exactly what I've been doing on my recent dates. Not cannibalizing the guy, I mean. Drinking.

Uh, anyhow. A couple days ago I saw a profile that caught my eye. The guy seemed interesting enough and he made it through my fairly persnickety filtering system. And so I sent him a little message, just saying hi, and I think I might have also mentioned that I like his favorite book. Fascinating, I know, but I never know what to say in those messages.

Today I got an instant message from him. Perhaps you will remember that in the little section on my profile where it asks about the first things people notice about you, I wrote: "My hair, my tattoo, my wild hand gestures, my long-winded stories. My sparkling personality? I'm not going to put the thing most people REALLY notice about me on here, but if you meet me you'll know." Guys tend to be intrigued by this and often they do guess right away when the meet me, but sometimes I'll get a surprising answer like "It's your weird nose, isn't it?" Also, more than one guy has laughed and said that he thought maybe I had a wooden leg or something, no offense to any amputees out there.

This dude had a different idea.

MY PROFILE SUGGESTS THAT I HAVE BIG B00BS. I MIGHT WANT TO FIX THAT.

Annnnd, scene.

This interaction might have bothered me if I had ANY EXPECTATIONS AT ALL OF HUMANITY ANYMORE. Which I don't. I have accepted that there are no good guys left. This guy just CONFIRMED WHAT I ALREADY KNEW.

If you need me, I'll be packing.

I give up.

There are no good guys.
There are just no good guys left. Are there? I would like to be proven wrong here, but it is definitely starting to seem like THERE REALLY ARE NO GOOD GUYS OMG.


On my online dating profile there is a section where you are supposed to write about the first things people notice about you. I wrote: "My hair, my tattoo, my wild hand gestures, my long-winded stories. My sparkling personality? I'm not going to put the thing most people REALLY notice about me on here, but if you meet me you'll know."
I'm assuming that most of you, dear readers, know what that last sentence refers to?
Anyhow, I met up with a guy a couple weeks ago and halfway through our beers he asked me about it.

Guy: So, what's the thing that people notice about you?

Me: You can't guess?

Guy: I don't know... it's not your tattoo, right? Because you mentioned that.

Me: No, not my tattoo.

Guy: Is it your nose? Your nose is kind of weird. It's your nose, isn't it?

Me: o_O


I met another boy a few weeks ago. He seemed nice, whatever. We hung out a few times... and then I mentioned something about how I would break up with a guy if he cheated on me. And then this boy gave me a speech about how cheating isn't THAT big of a deal because everybody cheats, even good guys, and KC probably cheated on me because guys usually do and a guy wouldn't give up a relationship unless there is someone else he wants, and I just don't understand because I don't have any kids (neither does he, by the way), but when you HAVE kids you realize that you have to work things out for the sake of the family, so when someone cheats then you forgive them. *pat pat on my head*
Me: O_o


And then there was last night. I went to see the Nutcracker with my friend's boyfriend's neighbor. I don't know him very well, and neither does my friend, nor her boyfriend. But we have all hung out in group settings before and I just assumed he was, y'know, NORMAL. I did NOT think he would abandon me on the street corner in an unfamiliar area of the Tenderloin. BUT THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED.
Here's what went down: One of the times the group of us all hung out, dude said he wanted to see the Nutcracker. I offered to go with him, if he was looking for someone with whom to go. So then last weekend he texted me and said he was buying the tickets for Friday (last night). I told him that I had an interview in Dublin at 4pm and I would hopefully be back in time, and I asked how much my ticket was. He said not to worry about it.
I ended up leaving Dublin at 5:30 so it took me two full hours to get home. I changed, grabbed a taxi, and made it to the theater at intermission. Dude was standing at the stairs with a glass of champagne for me. I was feeling cranky and bummed that I had missed the first half of the show, not to mention starving since I hadn't eaten much all day (too nervous because of the interview). But I drank my champagne and started to feel better. We watched the second half of the show (which was amazing, by the way) and then afterward dude asked me if I was hungry. Yes, I definitely was. He suggested a fancyish restaurant. I said we could just go to Mel's because I was really craving a grilled cheese sandwich. He said okay and we started to walk. After a block or so he said he really wanted to go to the fancy place. I said that was fine, let's go. So we walked... and walked and walked. We got to the restaurant and it was packed. So dude said we would go somewhere else and we started walking again. The following is a transcription of our conversation as we walked.

Him: I went to a new bar in my neighborhood called [something about a goat, I can't remember the name]. I just thought that was the stupidest name, ever. Like, why would you open a new bar and name it that?

Me: Because it's funny? I dunno. I think it sounds funny. Goats are funny.

Him: There's this other bar, I think it's near Eleventh and Folsom-

Me [laughing]: Is it the Holy Cow?

Him: Ugh. No. I hate that place.

Me: Whaaat? You can't hate that place! It's a dive club!

Him: People dance on tables there. I tend to avoid places like that.

Me: Oh.

We walk for awhile in silence.

Me [noticing that we are passing restaurants left and right]: Um. Where are we going?

Him: Well, if you want to go to any of these places we can, but I want to find this one.... [looking at phone].

Me: Okay.

We keep walking.

Him: Oh, here it is. Right up there.

Another block.

Me: Um. Where is this place?

Him: What? Are you getting annoyed?

Me: Well, no. But I mean, I don't want to walk forever. Where is this place?

Him: Right up there [gestures vaguely ahead].

More walking. (And let me explain here-- I don't usually MIND walking. I enjoy it, even. But tonight I was wearing fancy boots and a fancy outfit and I also just kind of wanted to pick a place and get some damn food.)

Me: Sooo, um, IS it right up there?

Him: Yeah.

Me [laughing]: Okay! Well NOW I'm annoyed!

Him: You know what? [stops walking, turns to face me, gives me a fake smile, grabs my hand, and shakes it].

Me: Wha?

Him: I'm just getting a really bad vibe from you.

Me: Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-

Him: I was really happy.

Me: And I'm bringing you down? I'm sorry, I just-

Him: [turns and walks away]

Me: [look around, realize I'm in an unfamiliar section of the Tenderloin and I don't know how to get out]

Me: O_O



I give up. There are no good guys.

Whateverishly

Everything's basically super awesome over here, she says, deadpan and sarcastic. The job hunt is progressing nice and whateverishly (thank you, David Sedaris, for that word). I'm still having my ups and downs about being freshly, stingingly, single. But I'm tired of talking about my feelings about the breakup on here, so let's just slide on past that.

Last week was pretty good. On Sunday, my mom and I went to the antiques faire and she bought me a super awesome Christmas present, which I will reveal after I open it at Christmas (yes, I insisted that it be wrapped and placed under the tree, even though I know what it is. What of it?). I bought some cute little glass animal figurines for my niece's birthday. On Tuesday, I flew out to visit my sister, ostensibly to hunt for a job in her 'hood. But then I came down with a nasty cold so I spent much of the week walking around in a nice little cough syrup haze and being treated to lunches by my sister. Now I'm back in SF, enduring a much harsher reality and having to make my own lunches.


---

Have I mentioned that I'm taking a hospice volunteering class? Well, I am. And the day after my breakup I had one of said classes. We had to do this grief experiencing exercise where you write down on notecards everything and everyone that you love in this world and then slowly have them taken away from you. Because THIS IS MY LIFE.

---

Two of my close friends have moved away, I no longer have a boyfriend, one friend is moving soon, and I don't have school anymore so I don't see those people as often. My social life has taken quite a hit. I'm trying, somewhat, to rebuild it, but it is slow going. I tend to collect one friend at a time and hate everyone else, so it's not as if I have a big group of people and dozens of sparkly parties to swan about in.
I have wonderful friends and family members, but they don't all live nearby and right now it would be nice to see everybody more often.

---

Traveling last week was pretty ridiculous. I managed to get on a plane that wouldn't fly, get a ticket for a train that didn't show up, and ride a bus with wet seats and lecherous men.

---

Let's end on a good note, shall we? Today I went to the grocery store and they were selling those pre-bagged containers of food so you could just pay ten bucks and then donate that bag of food to the local food bank. I did that, and then I stopped by Walgreens to buy some more toys for the tots. And then I made tortilla soup, and THEN I signed up to help on a research project (a PAYING (part time, short term) job). I also bought a pomegranate today which is delicious, if challenging, to eat.

Complaints

Oh, it's complainey day? Well don't mind if I do!

- While I was in school for the past three years I had the school health insurance, which is on a September to September cycle. This means that the people in my program who graduated in June got a nice little buffer of time wherein they could take their certification exams and find jobs and THEN their health insurance ended. My health insurance ended on September 7, the day after I 'technically' graduated. Which means no buffer for me, even though I could really use it since right now I am in the looking-for-a-job-and-studying-for-my-certification-exam stage. Further punishment for failing my Giant Paper Thing the first time, I presume?

- The insurance program for which I applied, that I was willing to pay for, sent me a rejection letter yesterday. I had to CREATE A USER NAME AND PASSWORD just to go on their stupid web site, download the letter, and find out that apparently I have too many preexisting conditions and I have done reprehensible things like GONE TO THE STUDENT HEALTH CENTER WHEN I WAS SICK.

- My toaster seems to have two settings-- barely heat at all and BURN-- and I'm always prepared for the wrong one. Sometimes I jump up every thirty seconds to check on the bagel and usually find that it takes four to five press-downs of the toaster button for the bagel to end up sufficiently golden brown. But when I resolve to SIT HERE DAMMIT until the toaster decides that the bagel is done then I end up with a burned bagel. Woe.

- I bought a new litter box for Bowie at the thrift store. It is much nicer (if 'nice' is indeed a word that can be used in reference to a litter box) than the old one in that it is covered and larger but still fits in the same nook. It results in fewer, ah, messes and spilled litter behind the box that I have to clean up but it also results in a small amount of spilled litter in front of the box, which means I step on it and AHHHH if there is one thing I hate it is encountering granules of cat litter with my bare feet.

- I emailed the company where I have worked seasonally giving flu shots for the past two years to ask about their schedule and when they were going to need me. They said they were sorry but it looks like all the flu clinics are all staffed already, thanks for my interest! So... they just didn't bother to let me know they were planning the schedule? They would rather hire brand new nurses than use one of their experienced employees? Great. I can't even get a job that I am hugely overqualified for, where I have worked for the past two years.

- Generally speaking, when people listen to a story I am telling and say "Oh, well *I* would have...." and then proceed to explain how they would have cuttingly told off the person who was mean to me or found a quick and easy solution to some big problem I am having. Shut up! No you wouldn't have! I don't care, just shut up!

Robbed

On Friday my car got broken into for the second time this year, because why not?
The last time was in February so I am starting to feel like an old pro at this. I drove straight to the auto glass place and they had the window fixed in a couple of hours. They also kindly piled up the items that were strewn about my car's interior (mostly maps and papers from the glove box) and vacuumed up the broken glass. They also gave me a deal for being a repeat customer. The only real downside of this place is the fact that my old windows were tinted and these guys don't do tinting so now my car is starting to look like an odd patchwork of windows.

Despite the quick fix, this sucks and I'm annoyed, particularly since my car was JUST robbed in February. These robbers got all the stuff that the others left behind-- a bag of clothes, my phone charger, my tire iron, the REST of my CDs, and my Important Things basket. They also took some things that I had just bought but hadn't carried into my apartment yet-- some sodas, kitty litter, and toilet paper. I had thought there was nothing of value left in my car after the last time but now there REALLY isn't. These thieves have been thorough. They yanked out my change drawer and moved the seats around, presumably checking for hidden valuables. They grabbed a box from the front seat and threw it in the trunk, probably after realizing it held nothing but scrap glass (for crafting). It is creepy to think about a stranger being in my car, going through my stuff, and taking what they think is valuable. Jerks.


On the plus side they overlooked my sun shade, my picnic blanket, and my flip flops.

Also? THEY LEFT ME A PRESENT.

That? Is a Wild Turkey glove. I don't know if it was an accident or some kind of insult because you'll notice that the middle finger is cleverly marked "Give 'em the Bird." Were the thieves sloppy? Or are they flipping me off?
Either way, joke's on them because all I've got to do now is find the person with the OTHER GLOVE.
Hello, my name is Superjules. You stole my Important Things Basket. Prepare to die.

Swimming Parallel

This past week I've been trying to put a little extra good karma out to the universe.

I participated in a food drive.

It was probably the easiest food drive to ever exist. All I had to do was fill a (provided) bag with nonperishables and leave it by my mailbox. Easy peasy.

I made an extra effort to be polite and a good tipper.

I sent encouraging text messages to people who I know are going through a rough time.

I donated $50 to Greenpeace.


Annnnnnd then today I got a parking ticket for $50.

WTF, UNIVERSE?

Ahh that explains it.
Must remember to swim parallel to the suck.

Microbes.

I think enough time has elapsed that I can talk about this.

When Valentine's Day rolled around last year I was dating KC but we had only been seeing each other for a couple months. I spent some time fretting about what level of present to get him. Something nice? Romantic? Nothing at all? A card? Something I make? Just dinner? The best situation would be that we both got each other something nice/romanticish or that his gift to me would be slightly MORE romantical than my gift to him. Which is basically what happened. And there was peace and prosperity in the kingdom.


This year was a little different.

If you ever find yourself in a situation where you are dating me, here is a handy tip: I will always expect the highest level of affection/attention that you have given me.

The HIGHEST level. Of affection/attention. THAT YOU HAVE GIVEN ME.

What does that mean? It means that if you take me out for a lovely, romantic birthday dinner one year then the next year I will be somewhat crestfallen when you say "Uh. I dunno let's just get pizza" without looking away from the TV. It isn't that I don't LIKE pizza or that I wouldn't ENJOY spending the evening snuggled on the couch or WHATEVER. That's not the point. The point is that you set the bar HERE once ----- but now you're only reaching for HERE ____ (not to scale).

You'll notice that I emphasize that my expectation of an attention/affection level is what YOU have ever given me. So it's not like I'm comparing you, potential boyfriend, to EVERYONE I'VE EVER DATED. Just your own actions. (Although truth be told if I WERE to compare you to everyone I've ever dated then you probably wouldn't have to worry at all because most of them set the bar NICE AND LOW. Birthday text message breakup, anyone?)

Anyhow. Are you following this highly logical logic? If you act a certain way in the beginning of the relationship, I will go ahead and assume that you will continue to act that way, unless something largely changes. Obviously if we are in the middle of a big argument or breaking up or you're stressed about work or your grandmother dies then, yeah, you're off the hook.

Extenuating circumstances aside, if you do something nice for Christmas or my birthday or fillintheblankholiday one time then my expectations for the next time will be in that RANGE. It doesn't mean that ANYTHING ELSE IS UNACCEPTABLE. Showing me that you care doesn't always LOOK the same. I'm a reasonable person. I understand that taking me out to a fancy restaurant is awesome but that taking me out to my favorite cheapie place is ALSO awesome. Buying me a fancy cocktail is EQUALLY nice as buying me a Pepsi in a glass bottle becuase you know how I love Pepsis in glass bottles. Basically I want to make it clear that if you show me you care about me once I'm not expecting you to fall all over yourself trying to show me in bigger, grander ways for the rest of my life. I'll settle for a somewhat consistent level of showing that you care.


But, say for instance that on Valentine's day last year you got dressed up and took me out to dinner and gave me a lovey, nice present and generally made me feel all fluttery and sappy.


This year? I WILL NOT BE EXPECTING THIS.

Yes. This year for Valentine's day I got KC something that I thought he would like and use and would tie in nicely with his birthday present and he got me THIS.

GIANT STD MICROBES.

I was. Um.
I was um, surprised.
Confused.
I went home and did an internet search. I found that he bought them off of a web site. A web site that sold OTHER TYPES OF MICROBES.

HE SPECIFICALLY CHOSE THE STDS.

I don't know about you, but, to me? STD Microbes just don't say "I love you."

If anything at all STD Microbes say "I'm giving you STDs for Valentine's day."
Even the BOX! Tell me the flaming V part of the heart shaped box doesn't scream FIRECROTCH to you.
ARGUE WITH ME ON THIS, I DARE YOU.

I went around in circles trying to figure out WHAT he meant by this gift. It must be a joke, I thought. But HE KNOWS I don't LIKE joke gifts. So then maybe it is because I am a nurse? But I'm not, like, an infectious disease specialist or anything. Is it because he knows I like cute, little things? But they are STDs. The fact that they are STDs OVERRIDES their cute littleness. I DON'T UNDERSTAND.

"I don't understand," I told Jenny. "What do I do?"
"Well," she said "You could let it go."

Ohhhhhhhh. I could let it GO. I could do what my sister has taught her daughter to do-- say "Thank you! It's just what I wanted!" I could accept this gift because KC spent money on me and spent time looking for a present for me and gave me something that I guess he thought I would like (?) for some unknown reason. I could let it go.
Or I could stew about it for a couple hours and then give KC tearful speech about gift giving and how I didn't understand what this meant and how I felt like maybe he doesn't 'get' me and how he was supposed to show me he loves me and STD MICROBES DON'T SAY I LOVE YOU.

I'll leave it up to you to guess which one I did.

Just the other night, KC and I were watching TV and there was a girl on the show who was trying to hint around for her dude to talk about their relationship since he was about to be moving far away.

"She's being so obvious," I said.

KC snorted "Not as obvious as you would be!"

"..."

"I just mean that, you know, when you have something on your mind you have to SAY it."

"But I-," I stammered, indignantly. "Is that bad?"

"No it isn't bad. It's just you."

Yeah. Well. STD MICROBES DON'T SAY I LOVE YOU.

But maybe putting up with a gal who always always ALWAYS says what's on her mind and really listening to her when she feels like she has something important to say and validating her feelings and telling her you love her and apologizing when you hurt her feelers, maybe that does.

And bringing her this?

Well, it sure doesn't hurt.

just a couple days

A couple weeks ago I had a rather... surreal few days. It started in clinical. I don't mind telling you now that it's over that my last rotation was on a cardiac unit. For my second-to-last day my preceptor arranged for me to observe open heart surgery. I got to assess the patient beforehand and then go with him down to the PACU and then into the OR.
I got to watch as they prepped the patient and anesthetized and intubated him. I watched the physician assistant harvest the saphenous vein and the doctors saw open the chest. And then they told me to walk around to stand with the anesthesiologist at the patient's head. I peeked over the drapes, and THERE WAS THE MOTHERF*CKING HEART. Pumping away as they worked on and around it.
Mind. Blown.
I have never in my life tried so hard to just NOT TOUCH ANYTHING. I kept having nightmarish thoughts about what if I accidentally touch the sterile equipment? What if I trip and fall over on something important? Or what if I trip and fall on the patient?
I didn't, though.
Everybody was super nice and welcoming to me. One anesthesiology resident even draped me with a warm blanket because the OR is, well, freezing. And the doctor preforming the surgery gave me a running commentary on what he was doing "Now I just attach the vein graft so the blood can flow freely through. I'm basically like a plumber, I suppose." Um. Dude. If you are comparing yourself to a plumber you are seriously the most humble doctor I've met in a great while. Because, no offense to plumbers, but HE HAD THE GUY'S HEART IN HIS HANDS.
I know it is surgery that they do every day but I was impressed at how the doctors and physician assistants and nurses and techs were all steady-handed-chilled-out-ho-hum-just-another-day-at-work meanwhile I'm standing there having an internal existential crisis Is he alive? Is he dead? THE MAN'S HEART IS STOPPED AND HIS BLOOD IS GOING THROUGH A MACHINE. What does this MEAN?
Seriously. Mind. Blown.
The PA had taken me aside before everything got started. "Look," he said. "it's going to be really intense in here. There are going to be sights and smells that you aren't used to so if you need to faint then step away." He explained that I needed to stay loose and comfortable and not lock my knees and meanwhile I was thinking PSHHH I've seen surgery before I'm all over this. Seven hours later I could barely stumble through the front door before I collapsed and passed out on my couch. It was INTENSE.

The next day I had my site visit-- the director of my program came to see me show off my mad history taking and physical examination skillz. It was nervewracking but it went just fine. Apparently they think I'm doing an okay job at this nurse practitioning stuff. I mean, that was my last site visit and they're going to let me graduate, presumably. Anyhow after that stressful couple of days I was in serious need of some R&R.
My friend D invited me to come with her and a group of gals from her program (I won't say what specialty they are but here's a hint: it has a lot to do with lady business and wee, brand new people). Anyhow they were all going to this spa so I tagged along. We headed over to Japantown's Kabuki Springs & Spa which turned out to be JUST what I needed. I paid my $22 bathhouse fee, stripped down, and spent the next couple hours feeling like some kind of goddess.
Bathing in the heated pool, dipping my feet into the cold pool, cooling my face and neck with icy-cucumber cloths, exfoliating my skin with salt in the steam room, lazing on a wooden lounge. It was just lovely. "Wait what?" KC asked me later when I told him about my day, "I was at work all day and you were in a spa full of naked ladies?" YES. And then I went out for drinks with D and the other gals.

And then the next day we had our last palliative care class. The last hour was dedicated to student presentations. People talked about their relatives or friends or patients who had died. Someone read a poem she had written about her father who had died and their tenuous relationship. Someone played a song they had written about a patient. One woman, a pediatric oncology nurse, presented a collage she had made of things that reminded of her of the kids she had taken care of who died. It was basically an hour-long sobfest. It was a nice way to end the quarter (and I mean that sincerely).

I told all my friends in class about the open heart surgery. I'm still telling people. I told my new preceptor yesterday. It STILL blows my mind.

Phone Anxiety: I haz it.

I don't like talking on the phone to people I don't know. When I was doing the online dating thang I liked the email, then text, then meet route. Because I can be awkward and squeaky when I talk on the phone to my FRIENDS so I can only imagine how I might sound to a stranger/potential suitor.
I have gotten better at calling the health center or the hair place to make appointments but I still hate calling to order from takeout places or calling businesses to ask questions. And if I have to call my new preceptor who I haven't even met in person yet? GAH.

Sometimes writing out a little script helps. Just so I hit all the important points and don't get trapped in the neverending circle of "Okay, just let me know what works best for you, thank you. I'm sorry again for calling so late, just let me know what works for you, okay, thanks again...."

Day 22: Something you wish you hadn't done

Hey! Look at me! I'm breaking the rules! I lost momentum and ran out of steam and other expressions of that nature on the 30 Days of Truth thang and so I'm going to skippity skip ahead severalmany days to Day 22: Something I wish I hadn't done in my life (and then possibly go back and make up the other ones, but maybe not). Also! I'm backdating this so it won't appear at the top of my blog. YOU CAN'T PEN ME IN WITH YOUR RULES, INTERWEB!

Okay. Let me tell you about the worst weekend of my life. Well, one of the worst weekends of my life. This was last September, 2009, and I was still with the Crazy Ex. He had moved back down to LA (without telling me he was going) and was allegedly looking for a job. I had planned to go down there for the weekend to visit and to go to a USC football game. We talked on that Thursday night and got into an argument, the same argument we had been having for weeks. His point: He was mad and frustrated and couldn't find a job and he hated living at his dad's house because his dad was an asshole and his mom was a pushover but wouldn't let him live at her house and even though he was clean and sober for a full year nobody wanted to help him out or give him a break and all his friends were jerks who wouldn't help him find a job and nothing ever works out for him. My point: You made your bed. LIE IN IT.
And this made him mad. So he hung up on me. I tearfully called him back but he wouldn't pick up. I decided to give him some time to cool off-- I was sure we'd both feel better when we saw each other. So I packed up my stuff and drove down to LA on Friday afternoon. The weather was sunny and I drove with the windows down, warm wind blowing through the car.

I hit the Grapevine around 9 pm and pulled into a parking lot. It was dark out but there were lots of people around-- people on road trips making pit stops, little kids running around excitedly.
I turned off the car, picked up my cell phone, and called him. "Hey," I said. "I'm here...." He didn't understand, what did I mean? "I'm in LA," I said. "I can be at your dad's place in about an hour."
His rage shocked me "What the fuck, Julia? You can't just COME DOWN HERE when we haven't talked all fucking day. My dad won't let you come over, he's already in a bad mood. Why the fuck do you have to ADD stress to my life?"
I started to cry. I told him I didn't mean to add stress to his life. I told him I loved him. I told him I just wanted to see him and didn't he want to see me? After we hadn't seen each other in weeks? After I came all this way?
"You just can't come here!" he shouted. "You don't understand! I can't believe you did this without even fucking telling me. You can't come over here."
"But I...." I trailed off, wiped my tears on the back of my sleeve. "I have nowhere else to go...."
He was unmoved, "You can't do that to me! You can't just fucking say that. God, I can't believe you did this."
"Okay." I choked out between sobs. "OKAY." I told him I'd try to find somewhere else to go.
I was too embarrassed and sad to call anyone so I ended up texting everyone I knew who lived in the area. As luck would have it, my friend Nicole came through and offered me her couch, even though I wouldn't get there until about 11 and she had to work at 7 the next morning. I didn't tell her the whole story, but she could tell I was upset. She promised to have a vanilla vodka drink ready for me when I got there. I got back on the highway, feeling numb.
He called me to apologize and to say that he was just stressed out, that he would see me the next day. I said I would pick him up at noon. "Okay," he said. "I love you."

I spent the night cocooned on Nicole's couch, surrounded by fluffy pillows and a stuffed unicorn. I felt numb and confused and sad, but relieved. This would all be okay, I told myself. When I saw him the next day, it would all be okay.

The next day I drove out to his dad's house. I felt groggy and tired and my eyes hurt from crying the night before. It was another hot LA day so I wore my favorite orange skirt and an orangey yellow glass necklace he had given me.

I rang the doorbell, heart pounding. The door opened and his dad stood there, brow furrowed in confusion. "Hey Julia," he said. "He's not here, sorry."
I didn't understand him. "He's not here?"
"Nope. I don't know where he is." And then his dad stepped back and shut the door. I stood there for a moment, blinking in confusion. I tried calling his phone, his friend's phone. Nothing. Finally, I rang the doorbell again. When his dad answered I said "Hi, I'm sorry. I know you said he's not here, but would you mind if I took a look in his room?" His dad shrugged, opened the door wider and let me in.

I thanked him and raced up the stairs. I opened the bedroom door and found... nothing.
Well, not nothing.
I found empty beer cans and liquor bottles.
I found a cell phone. I found tangled bedsheets with clothes strewn around them. I found a bra and a makeup bag and a pair of pink sunglasses. I found a duffel bag full of women's clothes. A woman's clothes.

So. You wanted to know something I wish I hadn't done?

I wish I hadn't climbed that staircase. I wish I hadn't stayed and searched for him for the rest of the day. I wish I hadn't believed that once I found him it would be resolved, that he would have some explanation and that we could still be okay. I wish I hadn't, after 6 hours, found him. I wish I hadn't let him get into my car, higher than a kite, paranoid, and angry with me. I wish I hadn't driven him back to his dad's house and painstakingly wrenched an explanation out of him, one that didn't even make sense, and accepted it. I wish I hadn't let him yell at me again, let him blame me for everything again. I wish I hadn't ignored the knot in my stomach or the prickly, anxious feeling in my chest for so, so long.

I wish I hadn't STAYED. Because after this, I STAYED. Sure, I broke up with him about two weeks later but looking back on this experience still gives me chills. Because I was so lost and confused and hollow and afraid that I was ready to accept anything he would give me. I was the dog he could kick and expect to come running back to him, begging for a treat or a kind word.

People sometimes ask me how I could have POSSIBLY dated this guy. How could I be with someone who treated me like that? And I tell them that he didn't start out like that. Of course he didn't. Girls don't START dating guys who beat them, do they? And girls don't START dating guys who emotionally abuse them, either.

He started out charismatic and fun and hilarious and thoughtful and charming and everyone who met him liked him and he was the life of the party. But after awhile that dwindled away but by then it was too late. I was trapped. I hate using the phrase "my therapist says" but MY THERAPIST SAYS that it starts small. And it did, it started small. For awhile it seemed like he thought everything about me was amazing and incredible and beautiful. And then one day it was "I don't like your music. Let's listen to my music." And that was fine. I didn't really care about my music that much. And then it was "Don't wear that shirt, wear this shirt." And that was fine, too. One shirt or the other didn't really matter. And then eventually it became "You shouldn't be friends with so and so, I don't like her and she's a bad influence," and "One day we'll get married and we won't talk to your family anymore." Little by little he wore me down, took me apart, made himself my window to the world.

People have told me that I "don't seem the type" to let a guy push me around like he did. I guess because I grew up with parents who love each other and a family and friends who have supported me throughout my whole life and because I have a strong personality and am able to achieve my goals that I'm not supposed to be the type of person who gets into this situation. I'm here to tell you THERE IS NO TYPE. There is no type.

That's part of what sickens and disturbs me about remembering that weekend. There I was, standing by my car outside his dad's house, dazed, wondering what had happened and how on earth I had gotten to where I was.
I wasn't strong enough yet to leave, to cut my losses, to get the hell out of there and hightail it back to San Francisco. At that point I couldn't even begin to think about what life might be like without him.
I didn't know it then but I actually was gaining the strength to get out. Eventually he was going to push me so hard that he wouldn't be able to get me back, no matter what tricks he tried. And believe me, he tried everything.
I got out.
But I still wish I hadn't let myself get cut down and kicked around and hurt and controlled by him all those times, and especially that one last time. Because if it happened to me, it really can happen to anyone.

Today I'm sick. STILL SICK. And mightily frustrated about it! But the bonus about being a nurse and in nurse practitioner school is that I have self-diagnosed myself. I can't self-prescribe yet but I can self-pity like a professional.

I'm spending the day drinking expired codeine cough syrup and eating expired Cheerios. I found them in the garbage. The Cheerios, I mean. On a recent trip to the basement trash room I found cases upon cases of expired Cheerios, so I helped myself. I found the cough syrup in my cabinet and it has made my day pleasantly hazy.

They're fine.
I would like to be well now, please and thank you.

These Boots are Made for Failing

Oh man I almost don't want to tell this story, but in the interest of fully partially disclosing everything, here goes.

A couple months ago I ordered these boots. Here is a photo of them! The right one, anyhow.

And here is the other side.

So I got these boots from Timberland at a deeply discounted price which was awesome but it also meant I had to order them without being able to try them on first. From their description, I thought they would be perfect for tromping around chilly, oft rain-soaked San Francisco.

They arrived a couple weeks later and I pulled out the mess of tissue stuffing and cardboard bits and tried them on. My heart sank. The boots were REALLY snug! Too tight, I thought. But I couldn't exchange them without a big headachey hassle so I decided to just break them in and deal with it, maybe they would stretch a bit.

So I wore them out and about and got used to them and even enjoyed them. They still felt a little too tight and rigid on the tops of my feet but I liked how they looked and I figured they had to break in at some point.

And then just a few days ago I was putting the boots on for an outing. As I held one open and angled my foot, I noticed something seemingly ripped on the inside of my boot. Oh no! Had I already wrecked my new boots? I reached inside.

Guess what I found inside my boots?

Yeah.

I've been wearing my boots for approximately A MONTH with the cardboard inserts STILL INSIDE.

Profiling Myself (Part 1)

My mom recently reminded me that she and my dad met on a blind date. They've been together for over 40 years. I think she told me this to try and make me feel less irritated at my family who keep making fun of me for my online dating.

That's right, I said ONLINE DATING.

I've been trying it. And it's been interesting.

It all started, as most good choices do, impulsively. I was at home on some particular night wondering what to do with myself. I started poking around on a dating site and before I knew it I was typing in my credit card number and trying to come up with a clever nickname since "Superjules" was already taken.

I had never thought I would try it. "I met my date/boyfriend/husband on the internet" never sounded to me like a desirable story.

But you know what an even less desirable story would be? DYING ALONE AND CHILDLESS, THAT'S WHAT.

So! With that attitude, I created my profile. In the interest of shamelessness, here it is!

Try not to judge me too much....

OMG. [Face getting hot.]

So, with my photos I basically tried to say: I'm cute! I have a tattoo! I like to party! I like going outside! I have a cat! I have friends! I wear glasses sometimes!
The profile was harder, the site had all these pages full of questions and I felt like I had to answer all of them. Well, all of them except INCOME, obviously (I'm a student-- my income would be in the negative numbers). And a lot of the sections were little boxes to check, but then the program automatically alphabetized them. So my profile makes it look like bowling is like my number one favorite activity of all time when in reality I could take it or leave it. I also said that I exercise 3-4 times per week. There wasn't a space for me to explain that by "exercise" I meant "I walk to and from the train."

I was initially worried that, oh geez, people looking for dates on the internet are just going to be creepy weirdos who can't get dates in real life, ugh. But then I was like, well, I'M on here and I'm normalish. Right?

About Me

I have slender, bony fingers and tiny wrists.

I have lived in California my whole life. I am open to the idea of living somewhere else, but I don't know how likely that is. I love it here.

I don't have cable.

I am a nurse.

I shop at thrift stores.

I have no patience for the family of video games in which you pretend to play instruments. Also, I suck at them.

But I can hula hoop like a badass.

There are things I probably shouldn't have done or said, but right now I have no regrets. Everything that has happened has gotten me to where I am now.

I am never bored.

I like old people.

I am a great gift giver.

I am learning to cook, sorta.

My parents have been happily married for over 40 years.

I have an overactive imagination.

I am working on a zen organizing project.

I am a tremendously bad liar. I just CAN'T.

I have 8 nieces and nephews.

I always spell nieces wrong the first time. Same goes for received.

But I never mix up your and you're.

I love to laugh.

But I also cry. A lot.

I have been to Fiji.

Chips and salsa is possibly my favorite snack food.

I fall asleep on my tummy.

I count on my fingers.

I am always cold.

I have been sailing. I thought it was too windy.

I have been harassed, threatened, stalked, abused, insulted, lied to, cheated on, stolen from, manipulated, abandoned, and betrayed. I am stronger now than I could have ever imagined.

I don't like coffee.

I have a cat. He is 25 pounds of awesome.

I am a creature of habit, but I also love to go on new adventures.

I believe in myself.

I have a primal urge to sing Ebony and Ivory karaoke.

I am terrified of people in large costumes out of context. Halloween: Okay. Grocery store: NOT OKAY.

I'm a little bit nuts.

I can bend my right thumb backwards all the way behind my index finger's knuckle.

I once tried putting cream cheese in my tea because I was out of milk.

I once worked as an intern on a documentary that won an Emmy.

Speaking of movies, my favorite ones are Labyrinth, Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, Pulp Fiction, Little Miss Sunshine, Role Models, Undercover Blues, Ishtar, The Muppet Christmas Carol, Sex and the City, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, Repo! The Genetic Opera, and Annie.

My favorite books are The Glass Castle, The Lovely Bones, anything by David Sedaris or Augusten Burroughs, One Hundred Years of Solitude, The Poisonwood Bible, The Other Boleyn Girl, Twelfth Night, and The Ordinary Princess.

PBR is my beer of choice.

Miss Grace and I have been friends for twenty years.

In high school, I commuted an hour each way. It was not fun.

I love to take baths.

I don't like wine. I do like champagne.

I make soap.

I can raise one eyebrow. Only the left one.

I have tattoos.

I have a lot of feelings.

This is my blog.

Balls.

[Update: This post was written in December 2009, when my blog was called Royal Jewels and the web site was theroyalpain.blogspot.com.]
___

So. Last night was rather enlightening. I went to the Blogher Christmas party in San Francisco. I always start off holiday parties feeling somewhat anxious. Will I have enough interesting things to talk about? Will I ask intelligent questions? Will I be standing in the corner trying not to look too awkward as I stare at people with my mouth open?

But Jenny was there and she introduced me to nice people and we talked about phones and business cards and carpal tunnel wrist braces as bloghers are wont to do. We drank margaritas and ate yummy free food and I was just starting to think to myself, Hm. Maybe I do belong here after all.

And then we were saying goodbye to Vanessa, and she asked what my blog was called. I said, "It's Royal Jewels. Like, you know, the things on a crown." I put an imaginary crown on my head as I said this.
Next to Vanessa, Jenny started laughing and said, "Not like BALLS?"
I stared at her a moment. "No." I said, offended. "NOT like balls. What the hell are you talking about?"
"Isn't it? That's just always what *I* think of when I hear the term Royal Jewels...." She shrugged.
I was horrified, "What? What? THAT'S what you think of when you hear my name?!"
"You know, like" here she paused, mimed fondling a nutsack, "Royal Jewels."
"No! No! Oh my god." I put my head in my hands. "Oh my god. Ohmygod Ohmygod Ohmygod. That's not what it's supposed to be at all!"
Jenny scrunched up her eyebrows, confused, "Seriously?"

Yes. Seriously.

Yes. I am the 27-year-old who did not know that Royal Jewels is apparently a common euphemism for balls.

Balls.

When I first started this here blog, I called it "Superjules" but then "superjules dot blogspot dot com" was taken so, after A LOT of brain-wracking, I picked "theroyalpain dot blogspot dot com" instead. And for awhile that was fine. But then I kept thinking about how my blog name and url didn't really match. Was there a way to put the two together? Could I come up with a name that combined the concepts I wanted to get across? Something that alluded to the idea being royalty (which I liked) with the name Jules (me). And then it hit me: Royal Jewels. Because it's ME- Jewels. And it's ROYAL. And, AND it refers to the gemstones worn by kings and queens. YES!

And for over a year I have been writing as Royal Jewels.

Balls.

Jenny was shocked at my reaction. "I thought it was a joke. I mean, I thought it was kind of a weird joke, but I assumed you knew."
I was still in disbelief, "But it's not... It doesn't mean THAT. You're thinking of Family Jewels." Family Jewels was what I thought she meant because, you know, balls are where spermies come from and those make babies which make families. Family Jewels.
"No," said Jenny, "They mean the same thing."

Balls.

I almost didn't want to write about this. Because how many people knew this while I sat here like a goddamn moron in the dark? And now I'm coming out and saying No no, internet world, I'm not quirky and confident with an odd sense of humor like you might have thought, but instead I am profoundly naive. Because the possibility that Royal Jewels meant anything at all other than the 'precious stones one might find on a crown' was something that never crossed my mind. Not once. There I was, the oblivious little old lady showing off a new bracelet while the rest of the family whispers grandma's wearing anal beads on her arm to one another.

Balls.

My blog name. Means. Balls. Excuse me while I go curl up under a rock and die.

BALLS.

Today,

I bought milk in glass bottles. I had been looking for them for a couple of weeks-- first at Safeway, then at Trader Joe's and then back at Safeway again because I wished so hard they carried it. What I REALLY want is an actual dairy service like they had in the days of yore (not you're or your). You know, where the delivery man would bring bottles to your doorstep and then father your illegitimate children? But for that to happen I guess you first need a dairy nearby. And a delivery man. And, well, a doorstep. So I'm settling for buying milk in glass bottles. I switched to organic milk a few weeks ago and YOWZA is there a difference. Num. That's all I need to say. And then it started bugging me that I was drinking organic milk from plastic bottles because that just seems wrong. So now, thanks to Whole Foods, I'll be buying glass bottled milk.

And, yes, my glass bottle milk buying is ALL I would like to talk about for today. I'm certainly not getting into this.

P.S. There is still time to enter my giveaway (that Tuesday Nov 17 deadline is pretty meh)! I'm throwing in a Flip & Tumble bag, for the winner, too!

What's the worst that could happen?

That's the question we were taught to ask ourselves in nursing school. It's basically a way to not feel so hesitant about asking questions or looking something up. Like if you have a medication that you are supposed to give your patient and you're not completely sure if the dose is right, what's the worst that could happen? If you ask another nurse about it, you might look stupid. If you look it up on the computer, you might look stupid and get behind in the tasks you have to do. On the other hand, if you just give the medication without double checking and the dose actually turns out to be wrong, then the worst thing that could happen is that the patient could DIE. The point of this thinking is that you're supposed to pick the worst of the worst things that could happen and then follow the series of events that would NOT lead to that. You with me?

Okay, so, last night my parents took me out to dinner. They parked in a lot owned by a nearby apartment building (since my building doesn't have any pay parking) and we were there for about an hour and a half. We came back to find the passenger side window of my parents' car smashed and my mom's purse missing. The car was absolutely filled with stuff-- suitcases for my dad's trip out of town, briefcases, files, duffel bags, etc-- but the only thing they took was my mom's purse. My mom had been using a different purse so the one that was stolen only contained some odd paperwork and the spare sets of keys for her office and house.

Oh, and an extra set of MY APARTMENT KEYS. The key to my apartment, the garage door opener, and the little doohickey you swipe in front of the front and garage entrances that goes 'meep' and lets you through the door.

The keys to my apartment, DOWN THE STREET.

So we reported the break-in to the security guys at the parking garage and my parents left. Then I went home to report the missing keys to my building security guard. When I got to the security office, there were two people already there reporting the presence of suspicious persons in the building. So I told the security guard and the people what had happened with my keys and he said he would put together a report and call the security over at the other garage and see if they had any footage of the same suspicious persons. It's a stretch, but not totally unlikely that the people who took my mom's purse might have gotten out the keys and driven down the block hitting the garage opener until a garage popped open. And if they drove straight from where my parents were parked toward my apartment building, then it wouldn't have taken very long at all for this to happen.

I went up to my apartment and thought for a moment: Someone out there has my keys. The keys are probably not but might be marked as "SF Apartment" or "SF #apartmentnumber." There were suspicious people reported in my parking garage approximately 30 minutes after we realized my keys were stolen. If the keys are not marked, someone could potentially try all the apartments until he (or she) got to the one that my key opened.

So, I asked myself, what's the worst that could happen? Well, if I think that someone might try to get into my apartment tonight, I could call a friend and spend the night at their place, but if I do that I don't want to leave Bowie here by himself so I will have to call and miss work tomorrow since I can't take him to work with me and anyways I'll have to get my lock changed during business hours and gah it will all be such a nuisance. On the other hand, if I don't do all of this and someone actually does use my key to get into my apartment tonight, I could get STABBED TO DEATH. I think I'll be calling Kelly to ask if I can come have a sleepover.

I hurriedly threw some clothes and stuff together and drove over to Kelly's house and stayed there overnight. This morning, I got up and gathered all my stuff again. I put on my backpack, I put on my purse. I picked up Bowie's carrier, in which I had stored his litterbox. I picked up Bowie. "HOLD ON to me," I hissed in his ear. I walked out of Kelly's building and down the street where I had parked. It was a bit of a hike and cars were wooshing by, but it seemed to be working out fine.

I got to my car and realized that I had parked it under a rather bird-popular telephone wire so the birds had freely shat all over my car. I tried to put the carrier/litterbox down and get out my keys to unlock the car and Bowie flipped the eff out and jumped out of my arms and scrambled under the car. His claws snagged on my shirt while he jumped, ripping it. So I opened the car door, threw my stuff inside and said in an attempted-soothing-but-more-like-hysterical-pleading voice "Look Bowielove, the car's open, get in the car honey. It'll be okay. Come on just GET IN THE CAR NOW." He stayed where he was. So I got down onto my hands and knees and put one hand up agains the bird-shat-on car, and reached with my other hand into the filth that was under my car (mud/leaves/oil) and grabbed Bowie by his back skin and manhandled him into the car. I called my work to let them know that I couldn't come in because I had to get my lock changed and the woman I talked to made it clear through her aggravated sighs that they were none to happy with me.

To recap, I took the potential threat to my life seriously and acted accordingly. I am now left with the following:

One brand new set of keys to one brand new lock.


One heavily bird-shat car.


One favorite shirt with slightly noticable rip.


And one skittish cat in dire need of a bath.


Also: one questionable work situation, one ruined Friday, and one messy apartment from my rapid evacuation.

But. I was not stabbed to death.