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I have an incredibly high level of dentist-related anxiety, much of it due to a dentist who apparently didn’t know how to inject Novocaine and who also didn’t believe me when I told him I was in pain, and some of it due to a dentist who I don’t even remember except with terror. Something about being alone in an office (like, desk and chairs office) at the age of 3 or 4 with no parent, while he threatened to handcuff me to something (a chair?) if I didn’t behave while he was cleaning my teeth. Stay classy, medical professionals. Stay classy. Also, I had an orthodontist who found my mouth too small for his fat fingers so he broke my jaw while trying to cram his hands in there, and who refused to trim my wires because I could just “bend them back with a spoon when I got home,” even though I was physically there in his physical office and they were gouging great big bloody furrows in my cheeks.

Good times.

What I mean is, my reactions to the dentist have a root in actual physical and emotional pain. While they continue to be irrational and overblown, they didn’t come walloping up out of nowhere. I have a long and established history of dentists causing me pain and either not believing me or else insulting and belittling me when I talked about that pain. One dentist, for instance, physically restrained me (shoved me back against the chair and held me down) while he worked on me. I wasn’t a little kid (not that it would have been appropriate for a little kid, mind), I was in high school. He tried to do the same thing to my brother, who is larger and stronger than I am and who managed to get away from him.

I also haven’t had dental insurance in a long time. While I did have a dental care plan worked out a few years ago, a sudden financial emergency that ate up all our savings, the money I had set aside for my dental care, AND all my credit, put an end to that. I also took a medication that caused dry mouth that lasted for years after I stopped taking the medication. So, you know, I have some pretty bad cavities. Two of these cavities are so big that they need root canals.

I did see a dentist about them, but I was pregnant at the time. I thought it would be a simple matter of filling one tooth. Some very quick X-Rays later I was told brusquely that I needed two root canals, my teeth were in bad shape, and the office was going to give me a referral to another place but I had to figure out who I could see (my insurance situation sucked ass and hardly covered anyone in the area). I was reluctant to get major work done while pregnant so just sucked it up and waited and withstood tremendous, searing pain that fortunately didn’t last for very long. It came and went, luckily. At least for awhile.

And then it came and didn’t go. It hurt so badly I wanted to claw my face off and pull certain teeth out with my bare fingers. Or die. You know. Whichever. So I arranged to see a dentist.

He took a bunch of X-Rays, told me my teeth were shit, mocked me for having so many cavities, and had a dental tech “polish” my teeth. Then they took the bib off and told me it was time to set up an appointment. For five weeks later.

Five.

Weeks.

Granted, the dentist was going out of town in two weeks, but five weeks later? There was no way to squeeze me and my SEARING FUCKING PAIN in earlier? Apparently not.

And then the pain settled in and wouldn’t leave. It hurt so bad I couldn’t sleep. I’d just sit on the couch and fold laundry and watch PBS specials on Peru and whimper and sob, tears running down my face, trying to keep quiet so I wouldn’t wake Nesko up because it was like 2:00 am. I was downing Tylenol III, extra strength Tylenol, and 4 Excedrin at the same time, and still longing for death because the pain was barely being touched. And then my stomach started hurting from all the Excedrin, which is one of the few non-prescription pain medications that works for me.

I turned to the Vicodin left over from my C-Section. I only had 8 left and didn’t want to use them up. What if the pain got even worse? I tried to space them out, take them with non prescription pain killers, not eat or drink anything that would make the pain worse, not let my teeth touch each other, that sort of thing.

I was able to get an appointment yesterday and went in.

Apparently it’s impossible to do more than one root canal at a time, so I had to chose which tooth to get worked on, which was an ass choice to make because they both hurt like hell. No matter which one I chose I’d still have terrific pain. I chose the right one, though, because since making the initial appointment that tooth had begun falling apart, and at least the left one still seemed stable.

The dentist gloved up and got a cotton swab with numbing gel on it. As he brought it towards my mouth, something jabbed me in the lip and I flinched away. He gave me A Look and said in a voice dripping with contempt “It’s just a Q-Tip.” I told him that yeah, I knew what it was, and that something had jabbed me in the lip or given me an electric shock or something. He checked out the swab and yeah, the wooden shaft of it had a splinter that had jabbed me in the fucking lip. Maybe I’m just a demanding, needy, asshole but I really don’t think it’s professional or decent to treat someone who is obviously on edge and nervous with contempt. “It’s just a Q-Tip.” Fuck you.

He swabbed my gum (no dentist has done this before; one used to give me an injection before the Novocaine that hurt like HELL and I’ve mostly just gotten Novacaine shots. They aren’t THAT bad) and then injected Novocaine into the outside of the gum, near the lip. Then he started drilling. And it hurt.

I’m pretty used to drilling hurting. I mentioned that I had a dentist who didn’t know how to administer Novocaine, right? Because I have so many idiosyncratic reactions to pain killers, I just assumed that Novocaine didn’t work on me. I even have had cavities drilled out with no Novocaine whatsoever. When I had a dentist who administered Novocaine correctly for the first time, I was surprised and thrilled. People had been telling me for years that I was just a fucking coward with a low pain tolerance who couldn’t tell the difference between pressure and pain.

In point of fact, I know what pain feels like.

I mentioned that the drilling was hurting and that it felt really cold. Very cold. Like when you stick an ice cube against a metal filling and the metal conducts the cold up the nerve and you feel like you’re being stabbed in the brain with an ice pick cold. Ok, I didn’t explain it THAT much. I was too busy trying not to scream, punch him, and flee the room. He gave me another Look and told me that he could give me “40 injections of Novocaine” and I’d still feel stuff. Then he started drilling again and it hurt even more. I gasped and made this terrible high pitched whimper and climbed 3 or 4 inches up the chair, white knuckling the arm rests. He asked where the pain was and I said it felt like it was right up the middle of my tooth and up into my eye socket. He let out this huge sigh like I was incredibly inconveniencing him and give me another shot, this time in the roof of my mouth.

He started drilling again, and I knew he was fiddling around with my teeth and I felt pressure and the occasional bits of pain that didn’t last long. But it wasn’t that OH MY GOD I WANT THIS OVER JUST PULL THE FUCKING TOOTH pain.

He didn’t think my pain was real.

Which, honestly, is pretty par for the course when I see any dentist or doctor.

He drilled and drilled and did stuff and I tried very hard not to pay attention so I wouldn’t freak out, and then it felt like he was drilling other teeth, including a back molar– possibly the wisdom tooth that I need to have pulled. I didn’t want him to touch any other cavities; I’m pretty sure he’s not covered by my current (State issued/funded) insurance and I wanted to go to a specific place that IS covered, so this little adventure might well end up costing me a hell of a lot more than I thought. He didn’t ask me what type of fillings I wanted, he didn’t tell me what filling is in the premolar he worked on (pretty sure it’s temporary, but he didn’t say anything), didn’t tell me if I needed a crown or anything, didn’t mention root canaling the other tooth, just told me to make another appointment. I was too shaken up to really ask any questions, although I did ask about pain relief.

He advised me to take Tylenol, which can cause migraines in me and usually doesn’t work at all on pain (not that he’d know that, that wasn’t part of any intake evaluation and isn’t really a common thing) or midol.

Midol.

Because apparently I can expect cramping and bloating in my mouth in the near future.

I was too rattled to really push the issue, but brought up the OH MY GOD SEARING PAIN and he told me that it was because I was grinding/clenching my teeth.

Which I haven’t been. I have never done that except under very specific stressful situations which this isn’t one of.

He told me that no, I have been! Most likely while asleep.

I said no, I don’t grind or clench my teeth, and most of the pain has been while I’m awake.

He argued that no, I must just not be noticing it, but I’m totes grinding/clenching my teeth and if I don’t believe HIM then I can ask his RECEPTIONIST who either grinds/clenches his teeth or else is psychic and knows my mouth better than I do.

Considering that touching tooth to tooth is painful, and that I have TMJ and so really really notice when I clench or grind my teeth, I really don’t think that’s what’s going on. But hey! He’s a DENTIST! He obviously knows me better than I know myself!

My entire body hurts today. All my muscles were tensed up as I braced for pain after pain yesterday. I had to keep opening my mouth, knowing that he was going to shove more instruments in there that were going to hurt me. I had to keep my mouth open while foul tastes and odors and pain wafted around and my jaw hurt more and more from staying open. My tooth that was worked on hurts like fuck because, duh, it was worked on (this is normal and will fade soon) and my other tooth hurts like fuck because it still needs work. And pain is radiating out of that tooth even when I’m sitting with my teeth far apart; my jaw doesn’t quite align right and my molars are crooked enough that it’s not really comfortable for me to have my mouth shut “normally” most of the time. Either my top front teeth rest directly on top of (but slightly to the side) of my front lower teeth, or else my lower lip is caught between the two of them. (My teeth/jaw aren’t as fucked up as this sounds, really.) Trust me, I am not grinding or clenching my teeth, and I still have searing pain that makes my eye socket hurt.

I’m not sure if this tooth will withstand the week and a half wait till the next appointment, and I’m literally sick at the idea of how much this will all cost. Literally. My stomach’s in turmoil. When people talk about the high cost of being poor, this is part of that. If I’d had dental insurance OR the money to properly deal with this crap when it was JUST small cavities– hell, if I’d been able to afford regular dental cleanings and thus prevented the cavities– this would not be the huge expensive pain-wracked issue it is now.

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*for the less nerdy out there, the title is a reference to a Simpsons episode where the Union Homer is a member of has to renegotiate benefits. The existing Dental Plan is at risk of being discarded, but Lisa needs braces. Homer winds up fighting for the Dental Plan so his kids can get adequate dental care.

It’s 3:30 in the morning and I can’t sleep.

It’s more than just insomnia, this time around. It’s pain. Physical pain. I’m so tired I’m dizzy and list to one side when I walk, but I can’t sleep because my tooth hurts too badly. I’ve been eating excedrin like candy, and I’ve taken so much my stomach hurts (also it’s hot, which makes my stomach hurt, and I’m exhausted, which makes my stomach hurt) but I still want to claw my face off. I’m really hoping my mother in law can take Nick today or else I’m basically fucked.

I hurt so badly I want to beat my head against a wall until I’m unconscious.

And I haven’t, you know, I haven’t felt like this in a long time. And the last time I felt like this, the pain was mental and not physical.

Because it’s the tiny hours of the morning, and because if I don’t have something to focus on I will do nothing but rock back and forth while whimpering and sobbing (note: I spent an hour whimpering and sobbing and folding laundry and watching a travel show on Peru, around 1:00am), I’m going to tell you about that trying emotional time.

It was my last year of college. I spent the second to last semester of college holed up in my room, incredibly depressed and overwhelmed, suffering from massive whomping panic attacks every time I left my room. This was a problem as both the bathroom and cafeteria lay outside my room, but I was able to push myself to use both facilities. I was not, however, able to leave the dorm and go to class. I went from all As and Bs to failing. Everything. Note that prior to this I had been in group therapy for a full scholastic year, and had basically given up talking about my depression, suicidal ideation, self harm, and sexual assault because it just seemed to really bring everyone else down.

My last semester got really bad. I was cutting pretty much every day, was obsessed with thinking up ways of killing myself, was hardly sleeping, and was beating my head against the floor. Literally. I was also on academic probation, but still couldn’t bring myself to go to class. I was paralyzed with fear and pain. I eventually got so bad that I scared myself and went back to mental health services and made an appointment to talk to a shrink.

I spent the 45 minute interview talking about my problems: how I was failing school and was going to get kicked out; about how I wasn’t handling my sexual assault (when I was 17) well; how I was overwhelmed and depressed and riddled with anxiety; how I was actively suicidal; how I was actively harming myself; how I was afraid I was going to kill myself; how I was out of control and terrified and a failure and incredibly depressed. I mentioned that I’d been on prescription antidepressants previously, and that they’d done me a world of good. I talked about my abusive past. And the guy I saw folded his arms tighter and tighter across his chest and leaned further and further away from me, his body language growing ever colder and more distant.

And at the end of the interview he told me I was “very self actualized” and that there was nothing he could do for me.

In point of fact, there was a hell of a lot he could have done for me. I probably should have been hospitalized; I definitely should have been medicated. He could have interceded with the school and gotten me on a different form of academic probation which would have allowed me to stay in school and graduate. He could have guided me in healing. But he didn’t. He essentially kicked me out of his office.

I was so angry, so furious (I, uh, also used to have serious rage issues that thankfully have calmed down as I’ve gotten older) that it shook me out of the worst of the suicidal feelings. I packed my shit up, and made arrangements to move off campus with a friend of mine. I think that moving in with her saved my life. At the time, my dad was still unmedicated (and hence irrational and abusive), and if I’d moved back home I probably would have killed myself. I’m not trying to be dramatic; I was in a really bad place.

I never graduated. Because I failed two semesters in a row, my financial aid was canceled. In addition to student loans, I also owe UIC thousands of dollars in tuition and fees. I can’t transfer my transcripts to any other school until that’s paid off. It will be very hard for me to get back into college, because my GPA is ass and even if it wasn’t I owe a lot of money and I don’t know how soon, if ever, I’ll be able to pay it off. And I still grapple with depression and anxiety although it’s never been as bad as those two terrifying semesters.

Usually, when I talk about why I left college without graduating, I’m evasive. I feel like a failure because I flunked out. I feel like a failure because I’m mentally ill. I’m ashamed. If I’d gotten mono and failed two semesters, or been hit by a truck and been unable to go back to school, or something else physical had happened I wouldn’t have anywhere near this sense of shame and failure. But mental illness is so stigmatized, and so associated with weakness, that I do. And carrying around a secret like this is hard.

My dad has a “congratulations, graduate!” card that he keeps in his office to send to me when I “finally” graduate. Why yes, this is manipulative and kind of abusive! Why yes, I’ve essentially lived my entire life unable to live up to his exacting standards! Why yes, he HAS often made me break down crying and wishing I’d never been born! Why yes, he HAS made it clear EXACTLY how disappointed he is in me! And I haven’t told him WHY I left school. I don’t know how, or if I can. I never told my parents I was sexually assaulted by a co-worker when I was 17. I’ve never told my parents that I self harmed from the time I was seven years old until fairly recently. I’ve never told my parents I’ve been suicidal. There’s actually a lot I’ve never told them.

I have a three month old baby, and I’ve been thinking a lot about parenting and my life lately. A lot of really bad shit I thought I’d dealt with apparently wasn’t dealt with very well; a lot of shit I thought I’d buried has been popping up. I don’t know how to deal with all of this. I am so incredibly scared of fucking up as a parent, of hurting my sweet boy. I’m afraid sometimes that I won’t be a good mom; that I can’t be a good mom. That I’m too flawed and broken to give a tiny human being what he needs. I come from a long line of fucked up, abusive people and I don’t know that I can buck that trend.

All I can do is try.

I’m kind of contemplating getting a pair of pliers and pulling this fucking tooth out, though. You know. In the meantime.

I just want to say this to people who claim that there’s no call for feminism any more because men and women have equality:

Hah!

Also, fuck you!

Because Ketel One? Does not want my filthy, disgusting vagina money! No! Ketel One is for men only!

There was a time when substance was style.
When men were unmoved by the constant current of the crowd.
When they didn’t drink their vodka from delicately painted perfume bottles.
There was a time when men were men.
It was last night.

Ketel One! It is vodka for men! AND ONLY MEN. Manly Men. Not like those other pansy girly vodkas in their delicate (girly!) painted (unmanly!) perfume bottles (probably only bitches and faggots drink that shit, am i rite?)!

As I lack a penis, Ketel One is obviously not for me. It is men only! They have a sign that says “no gurlz alloud.” And it’s really sad, because I loved their print ads, which were classy and interesting and understated.

And then there is Bacardi!

Bacardi wants you to know that I am very, very ugly.

I am fat! I have “lumpy rolls!” I have breasts that don’t look like softballs! I have a hairy mole! I have acne and I wear glasses and I have teeth that don’t look like a picket fence (ie perfectly straight). I have freckles and cellulite! I am a human being with flaws, and apparently Bacardi doesn’t want to be associated with me. If only I were a super hot woman or a man of any appearance, Bacardi would welcome my dollars with open arms. But they do not!

Alas, I will no longer spend my hard earned money on Ketel One and Bacardi. My screwdrivers and cranberry screwdrivers will be made with Grey Goose or Finlandia or some other brand. My strawberry Daiquiris and Rum and Cokes will be made with Captain Morgan’s (and Coke). I am certain they will be glad to receive my appalling vagina-tainted money without casting aspersions upon me, as a non-penis having, apparently non-penis pleasing person.

I posted earlier about the We Love Colors giveaway at Elle In Wonderland.

I totally won! Holy crap. Hoooooly craaaaaaap.

I have requested this striped pair in black and scarlet red.

When they arrive I will post a review and possibly pictures of my bad self wearing them.

Hey, does anyone in the Chicago area want/need some office supplies?

I have a shit load of post it notes, steno pads, lined paper, pens, and some other stuff. 3.5 discs, also, if you have a use for them. Let me know if you want this stuff.

I’m going to post a large amount of art supplies soon (probably next week). Paints, sketch pads, prismacolor pencils and markers, canvasses, an easel or two. I’d like a few bucks for that stuff, though.

I had to run downtown to pick up Nesko’s check yesterday, so I took the 151 Sheridan bus because it picks up a block away from the apartment and drops off almost directly in front of where I needed to be. I stuck Nick in the sling and off we went! Since it was like 1pm there was hardly anyone on the bus except for old people and students. The handicap priority seating section at the front was pretty full of frail looking elderly folks with canes. At one stop, a woman in a wheelchair was waiting, and just about everyone in that section cleared out as quickly as they could (which was pretty slowly). One old guy who looked to be in his late 70s or so and had a cane and shaky hands put up some seats so she’d have a place to park herself, and sat in the first row of fixed seats. She had some troubles getting on the bus and in place because her chair was manual and the bus aisle is kind of a tight space to work in. But she made it and we were off, and I was all “oh, Chicago, I love you. Chicagoans take care of other people.” I’ve seen this happen before, frequently, with folks helping other folks with strollers or wheely carts or what have you on and off the bus, or helping people dig out their cars after snow storms, or pulling over to help push or jumpstart cars. Chicago’s a big city, but it’s also a pretty friendly city. Which makes the random assholes really stick out.

As we trundled along a lot of people got off the bus. Old dude moved back up to his previous seat, which was the first front-facing handicap priority seat. Because he has a cane, it was easier for him to get up and down, as there were no seats in front of him. See? Anyway, he was on the right side of the bus and nobody at all was sitting on the left side of the handicap accessible seating. A woman in a motorized wheelchair boarded and started yelling at him to get out of her way. He politely put the inward facing seats up for her so she’d have a place to park her chair. He didn’t have to do that. There was much more space on the other side of the bus, and he didn’t owe her anything. He could have let HER put the seats up herself. She continued yelling at him, telling him that she needed to be where he was. He didn’t move, so she BACKED INTO HIM, PINNING HIM TO THE SEAT.

“What are you doing?” he asked in a highly offended voice.

“I TOLE YOU I NEEDED TO BE WHERE YER AT!” she bellowed at him and moved slightly forward so he could get up.

It was hard for him to get up, but he managed it, and even put the seat up for her, his old man hands shaking. She zipped into place and locked her wheels. The bus driver did absolutely NOTHING about the assault that just took place, and we set off. She got off about ten minutes later and old dude moved BACK to his seat of choice. After about fifteen minutes ANOTHER person in a wheelchair got on. Old dude tensed up. The third person in a wheelchair maneuvered his with his mouth. Had one of those special controllers. He was also the most graceful of the three. He ALSO took his place on the left side of the bus, where nobody was sitting. Somebody put the seats up for him because, again, Chicago is pretty awesome.

Nick and I got off the bus and picked up Nesko’s check and some tax forms and then walked to the Ogilvie Train Station, which is in the Citigroup Building, which looks like a waterfall made of glass. I was going to stop by Garret’s Popcorn, but then decided not to because that would just complicate matters, so we walked to the train station. Because I get lost at the drop of a hat I did go slightly out of my way, but I didn’t get LOST lost. It was about a mile walk, much of it under elevated trains that roared by overhead. The noise barely bothered Nick; the sun in his eyes did and he screwed his face up against it. Walking a mile with a baby strapped to my chest with 3 layers of jersey knit fabric made me sweat a fair amount, I’ll admit it. When we got to the train station my feet hurt because I need new shoes, and we trudged inside into the coolth. I took him out of the sling and put my jacket on a table and put him on top of that so he could look at the ceiling and de-sweatify a bit. I bought and ate some shitty bourbon chicken at the food court. In retrospect, I should have gotten a gyros. I bought and drank a bottle of water and a bottle of lemonade. I found a Garret’s Popcorn stand at the train station. BOOYAH! We had an uneventful train trip to Nesko’s office.

On the drive home we encountered a one-two punch of the sun being in Nick’s eyes and him being hungry, so we pulled into a McDonalds to feed him and refresh ourselves. I was still thirsty as all hell, so Nesko got a jumbo McLarge huge soda. There were some old ladies Holding Court and I learned the following:

• People from the Islands of Greece are totally different from people from the mainlands! They didn’t specify why, so if you know, please tell me!
• Nesko is totally diabetic because he got THREE REFILLS OF SODA omg! (note: he only got 1 refill and we (I) only drank half of the second refill). Excessive thirst is a sign of diabetes! And too much sugar causes diabetes! It is a one-two punch of irony! He is OBVIOUSLY in his THIRTIES and it is SO SAD that he HAS DIABETES and DOESN’T KNOW IT and is GOING TO DIE. MAYBE HE SHOULD GET THAT LOOKED AT.
• We are UTTERLY TERRIBLE PARENTS for hauling our baby around in upper 70s degree sunny weather with NO COVER AT ALL on him. NONE. There was NO COVER on that baby we were carrying. HOW SAD. What a POOR BABY.

They were pretty loud with their personal, judgmental observations, unlike the douchebag who sat next to us and Held Forth to his sister about what filthy whores women are!

Did you know that the most people a woman should ever date is two? That’s it! Any more and she’s a HOOOOOOER. And they should never ever ever cheat on a dude because it’s much harder for a dude to be cheated on than a chick. And if a dude cheats on a chick, that chick should just suck it up and deal, because it’s dudely nature to do so, and far too many chicks turn into hard unfeeling bitchez when dudes cheat on them. WHATEVER, BITCHEZ.

He then ran down Shitty Girlfriends He’s Dated.

• The chick who kissed someone else before they started going out. Sure, she denied it, but he totally knows the dude she kissed and he totally said she did it, so it totally served her right that he told all her friends she was a giant whorebag slut and ruined her reputation and made all her friends hate her. Because she was a giant whorebag slut. Seriously. What kind of girl KISSES a DUDE? She should have held herself forever pure in anticipation of dating HIM! Bitch.
• The chick who didn’t understand the complicated directions he gave her over the phone. What a moron! Good thing he told all her friends what a complete and utter retard she is and made them all hate her! I mean, if she wanted friends she shouldn’t have dared question him, amirite?
• The chick who came over to his parents’ house for Christmas and got all upset when he ignored her for half an hour to text other chicks. What a bitch! Good thing he cussed her out and made her cry! Bitchez, gotta put them in their place, amirite? How dare she expect basic human consideration and for her host to act like a host and not ignore her to focus on other people who aren’t even there! She should have made stiff, polite conversation with his parents who she doesn’t know instead!
• That cunt he dated who farted all the time. Don’t worry. He made sure to tell EVERYONE that she farted constantly and that they were RAUNCHY AS ALL HELL. Bitch should put a cork in it and stop assailing his delicate nose with her bodily functions. Don’t worry. People stopped talking to her for a LONG time after he spoke with them! THAT will show her!

There was also a dude pacing outside the restaurant talking on his cellphone.
“I don’t know what to do. I’m essentially useless without that wand, but I could sell it and buy a lot more wands!”

Oh, fast food restaurants. You expose such a delightful cross section of humanity!

Oh my God.

Oh. My. God.

OH MY GOD.

The Chicago Post Office is for sale! It was originally up for $300million, but it is a buyer’s market right now, so it’s up for auction. Starting bid is $300,000.00. THAT IS JUST ABOUT GOING RATE FOR A SINGLE FAMILY HOME AROUND CHICAGO. I am throbbing with desire to purchase and rehab the building.

The Chicago Post Office is super freaking huge because of Montgomery Ward, who had the revolutionary idea of making sure customers were satisfied. His mail order business had a money back guarantee. As a result, his warehouse sent out a metric tonne of packages from Chicago, and the post office was built to accommodate the amount of business it had. It’s made of Indiana Limestone, not Joliet, which means it’s white and not yellowish. It’s FREAKING HUGE. You know how sometimes people carve passages into Sequoia trees to put roads through them? Yeah. The same thing happened to the Post Office, with the Congress Expressway running through it. HOW COOL IS THAT. It’s also a movie star.

If I had the money to purchase and rehab this building, I would turn it into apartments, lofts, and studio space for artists. I would establish a few large rooms for gatherings and maybe small conventions. I would put a cafe, a bar, an indie book store, and an art supply store on the first level. I would totally and entirely market this toward artists and writers. TOTALLY and ENTIRELY. It could be AN ENCLAVE. Move over, Portland! Fuck you, West Coast! Chicago will become MORE AWESOME THAN YOU.

And, in this fantasy land I’m spinning, I would also have a pony that shits gold and farts rainbows and can fly.

Elle in Wonderland is running a promo to win a pair of tights from “We Love Colors.” I’ve been browsing their website for awhile now thinking about what kind of tights I could encase my fat legs in, so this promo has me very excited.

My top choices are these white striped tights, these black striped tights, or solid color maroon which will match this really wild dress I have that I’m, frankly, a little scared to wear because it’s PATTERN! and COLOR! and OMGCLEAVAGE!

Swing by her blog to leave a comment entry.

They have dude hosiery, too.

Nesko and I own a table that is very very nice. It is some rich dark wood (fruit wood, maybe? not quite the color of cherry, or the texture) and goes from “very very small” to “round and seats four” to “insert two leaves and seat eight.” I’m pretty sure that it originally had at least one more leaf, but we got the table from my mom who got it at an auction and it only came with the two leaves.

We sit at it in folding chairs because we can’t afford real, wooden chairs. We are classy. And yes, I keep looking on Craigslist for decent used chairs, but they’ve already been purchased by the time I email or call. Life is just so hard.

So anyway, we have this really nice table. It’s great for eating breakfast at, or having people over for dinner at, or for playing board games with people at. I usually keep it covered in a table cloth because I don’t want the wood getting scratched, dinged, or sun faded or dried out. So its loveliness is often hidden, which is a shame, but that means it’s lovely for later as well. Sometimes we eat with placemats instead of a table cloth.

My baby’s god daddy was in town visiting us a short while ago, and we played “Cities and Knights of Catan.” I lost, because I always lose. It is my nature. We played on the naked table because a table cloth can make the board (which is made of tiles set close together) lumpy and affect game play. We ate pizza and drank cokes and screwdrivers and had a really good time. And I felt like a rampaging bitch because I kept reminding Mike to use a coaster.

Other people habitually use coasters! We got ours at flippin’ TARGET. It’s a normal thing! But I felt like such a douche reminding him to use one. And I felt really paranoid. We don’t use coasters for ANY other piece of furniture, but then all of our other furniture is crap laminate. I just… really like this table. It’s a “real” table, made of wood and not plastic or veneer, and it makes me feel like an adult. I’ve had dinner parties at this table, complete with multi course meals and wine and pomegranates for dessert. Adult! And I want to keep it nice.

But I feel like a poser, all using coasters and badgering people not to put their coke cans directly on the wood; like I’m faking this whole “adult” thing in a fairly desperate and obvious way.

What’s the nicest thing that YOU own? Are you paranoid about keeping it nice and in good shape? Am I a crazy person? Let me know what you think.

I was trying to think of a cute, catchy headline like “proximity to grocery stores fuels obesity?” or “since when is access to a wide range of foods a bad thing?” or “douche bag writer exposes fat bias.” But seriously, what the fuck is this shit?

One might think that “everyday low prices” for food would mean that people would eat much more–stuff themselves, even. [...] Further, we found that Wal-Mart’s effect on weight is largest for women, the poor, African-Americans and people who live in urban areas.

Fat people aren’t a glutenous mass of binge eating gluttons, cramming sacks of groceries into their gaping maws at the first opportunity. Providing people with a grocery store that sells, you know, groceries doesn’t trigger an epic shift in corpulence simply because food is available. I cannot BELIEVE that article includes that as a concept, that providing people with groceries to feed themselves with will make people fat. Or do skinny people not use grocery stores?

I’ve lived places where it was very difficult to purchase fruits or vegetables, because the only local stores where either convenience stores that either don’t carry said items or mark them up atrociously, or the fruit and veggie selection was horrible (Imagine walking into a store and every single cauliflower is mildewed and all the apples are shriveled). To get actual fruit or veggies took three hours of commute time, spread over 2 buses and a train and about two miles of walking. I’d get off work at 5:00 and not get home until 8:00 or later, which is particularly miserable in the winter in Chicago. Or, I could hit the convenience store across the street, skip the healthy components, and have a weaker dollar because all the food was marked up. I frequently didn’t have the energy for a 3 hour trek carrying 30 pounds of groceries and would just go across the street.

So given a choice between really expensive or very unappealing fruits and veggies and something less healthy (but filling) like chips or crackers, what do you chose? If your only bread option is enriched white bread, you’re not getting much sandwich related fiber. Sliced turkey or chicken is a hell of a lot more expensive than bologna or fatty peanut butter. “Real” cheese is more expensive than pasteurized processed cheese food, and also tends to go moldy if not used up quickly (assuming you don’t purchase it moldy; I’ve had that experience as well). Not everyone has access to a Whole Foods or Trader Joes, and even if you live near one that doesn’t mean you can afford their prices.

The first is the substitution effect: a change in consumption mix due to a change in relative prices. If a bag of salad is $2 and a bag of potato chips is $1, then the price of salad in terms of chips is two bags and the price of a bag of chips is half a bag of salad. If a Wal-Mart opens and reduces the price of salad to $1 a bag and the price of chips to 75 cents a bag, the “salad price” of chips has risen (from 1TK2 bag to 3TK4 bag) and the “chip price” of salad has fallen from 2 bags to 4TK3 bags. In short, salad has become cheaper relative to chips.

The other effect from a change in prices is the income effect, which is a change in consumption due to a change in purchasing power. If Wal-Mart sells food at lower prices–even if our incomes don’t change–every dollar can buy more.

No shit, Sherlock. How is this even news? Seriously? Have these people never had to go shopping? Never had to make a budget? Never had to decide between buying fresh vegetables or buying milk? Never had to skip the lunch meat and keep making peanut butter sandwiches even though you can barely choke down another God damned peanut butter sandwich but that’s all you can afford?

We’ve illustrated how changes in relative prices and purchasing power affect people’s decisions, and this research suggests that people do make the right decisions when the prices of healthy foods fall and purchasing power rises.

Ooooh, right. Because women, poor people, People of Color, and people living in urban areas eat crap food and are unhealthy and fat because they’re just too fucking dumb to know otherwise, despite the near-constant barrage from every media source on the planet dictating what, when, and how much people should eat. It has nothing to do with food availability or price. Imagine that!

Americans live in one of the richest countries in the world, yet lots of folks are physically unable to realistically buy affordable, healthy groceries. It’s very, very difficult to be healthy without a healthy diet, and it’s incredibly depressing that the assumption this dude had, right off the bat, was that providing access to affordable groceries would cause OMG TEH FAT. Seriously, what?

But I guess when you assume that non-white-male folks just shove corn chips into their gaping maws at every opportunity, you’ll assume that given the chance to buy corn chips in bulk at a low cost will lead to madness. Of course, that’s an assumption with no basis in fact what so ever.