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Got some link love on the Chicago Sun-Times today for my former dating column:
Things to do in Chicago when it’s snowing…
# Reading. The Chicago Reader’s annual fiction issue is online for your pleasure. For more inspiration, check out Jonathan Messinger’s Books of 2009, or locally based sites like Bookslut and PopMatters.
# Sex. Heat things up in the bedroom with advice from our favorite sex columnist, Anna Pulley (aka Centerstage’s former Carnal Consultant)
# Loafing. If you just want to sit and watch TV, that’s fine, too. Visit The TV Paige for ideas…and buy tickets now for the B-Fest a full 24 hours of bad movies in Evanston. Of course, that’s in a few weeks — hopefully, this storm will be over before then.
I think it’s pretty fitting that I was placed between reading and loafing.
And now I will go back to doing those things.
People who live in Chicago, tomorrow is the International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers (December 17th) and the Sex Workers Outreach Project is hosting an event:
We look forward to seeing everyone at tomorrow night’s International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers Event at barbara&barbara gallery starting at 6:30pm. Speakers will begin at 7:30pm and the candlelight vigil will begin around 8:45pm. everyone is welcome and encouraged to get up and speak or read a passage appropriate for the theme of the event.
During the daytime, several members of SWOP-Chicago will be hitting the streets of Chicago with red umbrellas to educate the public about IDTEVASW. If you would like to be part of this action, groups are meeting at Harold Washington library, 400 S. State St. starting at 11AM. Please joins us! For more info about the street action, please email firstname.lastname@example.org today or call our hotline at (312) 252-3880.
Also, if anyone knows events going on in the Bay Area, let me know.
Thanksgiving day in 2005 was the first time I thought I could die from the cold. It was stupid degrees outside, with a -20 wind chill, and I had a fever. I didn’t know about the fever as we drove from Rogers Park to Hyde Park to cook Indian food with a friend of my girlfriend. I thought it was hilarious at the time, cooking Indian food on Thanksgiving, and it was. But maybe that was the fever too. For those who don’t know Chicago, Rogers Park and Hyde Park are not close to one another. In fact, Hyde Park may have been in Michigan, actually. Except that the Obamas lived there, so it must’ve been Illinois. Anyway. My girlfriend drove us all the way across the city to Hyde Park while I shook violently from the cold, despite multiple layers, hat, gloves and a coat I can only describe as something the Michelin Man would wear on days he’s feeling fat.
By the time we got to her apartment, I thought I was hallucinating. My left breast had swelled to cartoonish proportions, while at the same time it felt shrink wrapped to my ribcage, and I had to bury my face in the mattress in order to keep my teeth from chattering my jaw off. Despite these things, I still didn’t want to go to the hospital. It’s a common situation in the U.S. Most times, I’d rather just suffer through whatever it is I have than face the ridiculous expenses incurred at a hospital. A band-aid alone will set you back hundreds of dollars. And though I did have insurance, from the federal government no less, it was pathetic. They didn’t even give me an insurance card. I had to cut it out of a piece of cardstock. Like a proof of purchase cereal box toy, except minus the joy. To go along with my pathetic insurance was my pathetic income, which was $10,600 a year (BEFORE taxes. Thanks, AmeriCorps!). I could barely afford overdue library book fines, so a hospital visit was not even remotely within my budget. But once my boob outgrew my stubbornness, to the hospital I went.
I saw no less than twelve people in the first hour. Some of them may have been doctors, but I don’t know because nobody introduced themselves and all of them asked the same exact question, which was:
Are you pregnant?
Like all of the minor characters on The L Word, the doctors would be really interesting for a few minutes, pumping me full of drugs and such, and then gone forever the next. It was really confusing. Even more confusing though was why they didn’t believe that I wasn’t pregnant. I tried to be obvious. I introduced my girlfriend to everyone who walked by, even the ones who weren’t intending to come into my makeshift curtain-room.
Have you met my lesbian lover? Yes, the one holding the vomit tray. We’d be having gay sex right now if I wasn’t, you know, in the hospital…and all of you were around…distracting us.
I…I was just trying to find the cafeteria, ma’am.
Oh. Well, bring me back something gay then. And a Snickers.
It never worked though. The next round of interrogations would always include the pregnancy question. I understood the Are you breast feeding? question, considering the size of my boob, but not pregnancy. What kind of freakish side effect from unprotected sex would THAT be? Once they finally stopped asking me about my uterus, then came the “anti-nausea” medication.
But I’m not nauseated!
Yes, but this will help your nausea. Don’t worry.
Really, it’s not my stomach. I think I have a fever though.
Just take this anti-nausea medicine then. By the way, you’re not pregnant, are you?
Eventually he wore me down and I took the damn anti-nausea drugs. Which, of course, caused me to throw up immediately. My girlfriend tried to catch it with this little saucer-like thing, all while looking away because she was so grossed out. She was good though – nothing spilled. The doctor came back a while later, looking very satisfied with himself and tried to give me more anti-nausea drugs.
If my womb wasn’t so empty from not having a child inside of it, it would beg you to not make me take any more of those drugs! I said.
But look! You threw up! So clearly you WERE nauseated.
It was like trying to argue with a dead goldfish that had watched too much Abbot and Costello. While stoned.
Eight hours later and still feverish, I convinced them to let me go. On the way out, they gave me more anti-nausea drugs and probably another prescription for the bacterial infection that caused Mount Evebreast. I felt just as awful leaving the hospital as I had coming in. And exasperated. I had essentially been charged $4,000 to be humiliated.
The $4,000 is not an exaggeration either (unlike the dialogue of this post). They charged me half of my yearly salary to vomit on my girlfriend. When I read through the breakdown of the charges, I noticed this:
PREGNANCY TEST – $400
Setting aside for a moment the complete and utter fuckery that this charge was, what the hell would make a pregnancy test $400? They cost $7 at Walgreens. Which leads me to believe hospitals are actually meth labs. Think about it. Everyone wears pajamas all day. They keep needles on them at all times and they serve mashed potatoes with an ice cream scooper. If that doesn’t scream Drug Addict to you, then you’ve been spending too much time at Wal-Mart.
I had forgotten all about the humiliation and financial burden of this particular trip to the hospital until a few days ago when my step-dad had a stroke. This was a few weeks after Medicaid decided to cut off the treatments he was receiving to help his blood pressure. It’s not a coincidence. And in my pain and frustration and indignation about the medical profession, the shitty state of our health care system and the fact that I can barely understand my step-dad because his face is half paralyzed, I remembered my own experience and it made me angry all over again. Health care is NOT a business. It’s a human right. And the insurance companies and the legislators who are financially and politically in their pockets will continue to abuse and take advantage of the people who are sick and poor and powerless. My mom wrote an appeal letter to try to get his benefits reinstated, but who knows if that will do anything. I don’t know what to do either. Obama tells pretty speeches about health care reform. He also sent 30,000 more troops to Afghanistan a few days before accepting a Nobel Peace Prize, so I don’t feel that optimistic about change anymore.
Does anyone have any suggestions? Causes I can donate to? People I can set on fire? I’m tired of feeling hopeless and/or aggravated about this.
I don’t know quite what to do with this blog. I’ve been writing over here for a while now: Good Migrations but that’s mostly about traveling.
And I am kind of pretty much done traveling for a while. Unless we’re talking about the sisterhood of the traveling pants, in which case, I’ll never be over that.
Also, that pukey green header bar at the top makes me feel all stab-y and I don’t want to ruin our new-to-me furniture. I need guidance. Do I make this into a sexy blog? With maybe some erotica, events, Chicago Now-ish stuff? Do I scrap it and start over? Does anyone even read this anymore? Oh Christ, fine. Here’s some boobs. Plz 2 send guidance now. kthxbai.
The cover story of today’s RedEye is all about polyamory. Other articles include a glossary of poly lingo and a resource guide for Chicagoans on, among other things, where poly peeps go to sing karaoke:The PolyChi Yahoo! Group, founded in the late ’90s, has more than 1,000 members and hosts…
I’m really interested in exploring breath play by myself, but I’m really scared of ending up dead alone in the middle of rubbing one out. What’s the best way to get into this kind of stuff without ending up in a coffin?~Breathless in ChicagoDear Breathless in Chicago,That was going to…
Why waste your time at the Taste of Randolph Street, when you can sip cocktails, eat cupcakes and watch beautiful women model vintage garters, head pieces and riding crops? This Saturday, June 20th, is the launch of L’amour Couture. Michelle L’amour and Love, Lulu Mae have come together to create…
Erin Bradley, advice columnist extraordinaire at Nerve, calls out some of the worst advice columns in a new weekly series. Below is an excerpt from Veronica Vixen at Lowrider Magazine, which is, I’m finding, so much more than pictures of boobs and cars! The Dilemma: Robert’s girlfriend goes all Twilight…
A look at the website, Cheater News, where people can anonymously post revenge stories, insults and grooming tips for those they have been wronged by. Favorite quote:
Back in late Dec. 2005, I left Laura M. Why? Laura is the P@ssy trap
And someone even uses the “you have a stick in your butt that makes you walk funny” insult. Read the whole thing here.
Check out a review of Holly Hughes’ performance, courtesy of Ammie:
Back when I was a babydyke and still in the “everything queer is automatically awesome” stage, I bought my then-girlfriend a copy of Holly Hughes’ Clit Notes: A Sapphic Sampler, which is a collection of the lesbian performance artist’s early work. Other than that I enjoyed it, all I remember is thinking that The Well of Horniness was one of the best play titles I’d ever heard; most of the draw of the book in general came from its titles, really. “Clit?” I thought. “Count me in!”
“What were you thinking? it’s obvious you were never at the original Touche when it was on Lincoln Ave. Touche in Rogers Park is a dirty-stinky hole in the wall, where most of the male Ho’s hang out for cheap sex in the back room & bathroom. There is absolutely nothing charming about a toilet honey. Places like this is one reason why H.I.V. infection is on the rise again in the gay community – it’s un-healthy!”
You can read my review of Touché here.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to spread some incurable diseases.