Doing what you can Friday, Sep 26 2008 

     Please note, this is a somewhat graphic post dealing with rape, rape kits, and evidence collection. I tried to keep it somewhat clinical. There’s also a little political bit at the end.

     I used to volunteer for a local women’s shelter as a domestic violence and crisis counselor. That means that a few times a month I was on call to take phone calls or go to the hospital and meet with victims of domestic violence. I’d get calls at 2, 4, 6 am with instructions on which hospital to go to, what the victim’s name is and the situation. I got up, threw on some comfy clothes because I might be there four hours or so, maybe grab a snack to chomp on the way.

     At the hospital, I head straight for the ER to show ID and make my way through triage. God help me if there was a major accident. The ER can be scary, people running around with crash carts, people screaming. Blood.

   Our women’s center had a little locker like you had at school that included an instant camera, a clipboard and forms, brochures, rubber gloves, and some extra clothes. I’ll tell you why there were extra clothes in a minute.

     There is a long protocol for hospital visits for shelter volunteers. Identify yourself and ask if you can enter the ER cubicle. Look the person in the eye. Assume she (or he…I had a couple of male domestic violence victims) is innocent and telling the truth. That last one was difficult for some people to grasp, though not the volunteers who know better. Nobody asks to have the living breath beat out of them in front of their children. Nobody asks to be raped by the ex they thought they were rid of. It takes a battered woman an average of seven times to finally break all ties with her abuser.

    I collect verbal information, take instant photos with the camera, and talk about what happened. If they want information on restraining orders I give them that. I can’t give them much more than brochures, a cab voucher, and a hand to hold. The idea is that we are victims’ advocates. We are there to provide some comfort, some help for the person. I talked to nurses, doctors and police many times – can she have another blanket? Can she have some water? When can she go home?

     Seeing people bloodied, beaten, or, in one case, stabbed, was horrified, but the rape kits were by far the worst. Hardly anybody I speak with really understands what a rape kit is or what happens. The rape kit is a little box (in our state it is provided by the Attorney General’s office) with an assortment of baggies, swabs, plastic cloths, and various other evidence collection items. The performing physician – who almost never had done this before – proceeds to gather physical evidence of a crime. It’s hard to imagine - the victim of a violent crime must strip naked, give up her clothes as evidence, and subject her body to a thorough combing by a stranger with a second stranger present. In a hospital. In the middle of the night.

    She takes her clothes off over the plastic cloth. She deposits her undergarments in one of the baggies. The physician combs her head hair with a comb. Later, her pubic hair is searched with a fine-toothed comb in the hope that there are fibers or hairs left behind. Sometimes the doctor might pull out some of her own hairs – head or pubic - to provide the comparison. The physician swabs any place on the body that may have come in contact with the perpetrator’s bodily fluids. Sometimes blood is taken.  She has a a pelvic exam – stirrups included. She is asked a hundred questions about weapons, positions, environment.

     After an hour, two hours, four hours, I can go home. She is usually discharged after me. I make sure she has all her belongings. I get her some clothes if she had to release hers to the rape evidence collection kit which is maintained as a record of evidence for…ever…. I ask if the center can call her to follow up – When should we call you? When is a safe time?

     She goes home or to wherever we have determined is a safe place for now. I go home and go to sleep and try not to think about it anymore.  I stopped volunteering as a victim’s advocate a few years ago because I moved out to the ‘burbs and it was too far to go anymore. And honestly, it’s hard. I did it for nearly three years and it was time for a break.

    I’ve been thinking about this for two reasons. Firstly, in the wake of the hurricane, there have been requests for volunteers of all kinds. I kind of adhere to the “each according to his ability” philosophy of volunteering. I personally cannot handle the elderly. The elderly ones who need volunteers don’t have  much support, etc etc and it makes me very very very sad. But I can handle – could handle – being a rape victim’s advocate. Lots of people say they couldn’t handle that. I’m sure they couldn’t, but I can. I do a different kind of volunteering now, though. I won’t say I volunteer to help because I found the joy of volunteering so wonderful, but I found the pain of turning a blind eye to the issues. Not all the volunteering I do these days is on the scale of counseling rape victims, but in some small way, I feel like I’m doing something to help someone.

    The other reason this has been on my mind lately, which has nothing to do with volunteering but everything to do with doing what you can, is the information coming out about Gov. Palin. When she was mayor of Wasilla, the city was charging women for the administration of a rape kit. While there may be some charges associated with the hospital you go to, which is unfortunate, there should be no charge for the rape kit. She says she didn’t know about the charges and I say that’s a load of moose poo. Do what you can, when you can, to help.

     I think my conclusion here is that if you can do something, do it. If you can help out, if you can look for ways to make something better in your community for everybody, do it. Doesn’t have to be major, can just be something consistent and small. I don’t mean to go all After School Special on you, but this is really something I’ve been mulling over.  Also, please reconsider voting the Republican ticket. The sort of woman you want in the White House is not a woman who turns a blind eye to something as big as charging for rape kits while she’s mayor, who endorses shooting animals out of planes (then putting a bounty on their paws), and who has proved her own theories of sex ed to be rather misguided.

Dear Power Lines Guys… Tuesday, Sep 23 2008 

    Nobody could have foreseen it and it couldn’t have been stopped. This is what happened in the week after, to me:

  Over the last week, I have consumed seventeen fast food meals, six sit-down-dinner meals, and several trips to Starbucks for coffee, tea and carbs. That is more fast food in one week than I had consumed in the year or so prior. 

     I have spent at least 15 hours reading in bookstores – I have read 187 pages of the first Twilightbook (eww…baaaaad….Meyers, you need to learn to use the word ‘myriad’ properly), started a Dresden Filesbook, and purchased several more. I’ve spent 15 hours reading in my bed by the light of nine tealights and an Itty Bitty Book Light thingy. I’ve finished at least one book and started 2 more.

     My iPhone has been my link to my e-world. I have checked my email 29 times. I have checked and/or changed my Facebook status ten times and 90% of them dealt with the fact that we had no power. I charged it up at work. I used it for an alarm clock during the week.

     I have tended six ferrets in the dark for eight days.

     I did not kill any of my neighbors nor inflict bodily harm on them as they: hooked up a roaring generator in the parking lot at 11:30 pm on a weeknight, rolled into the parking lot at 2, 4 and 5 a.m. blaring some sort of thug-thumping crap that woke me from a dead sleep, and held an impromptu party by the mailboxes at 12 midnight, complete with shrieking, lobbing beer bottles into the dumpster, and repeatedly screaming ASSHOLE at each other.

     I learned that Husband needs caffeine in the form of Starbucks and electricity in the form of the Internet and various PC games in order to feel whole and unbored. I learned that “atmosphere” in the form of encroaching darkness a la the film The Othersis only a good idea if Nicole Kidman and ghosts are involved. 

   I have discovered a previously untapped talent – I am the best drummer in RockBand on PS2 in the world. As long as it’s on EASY and I sort of know the song. I look like Animal from The Muppet Show but damn that game is fun.

    It is apparently perfectly acceptable to answer the question, “Can I help you find something?” with “No, I’m just enjoying your electricity…”

     I missed Project Runway, America’s Next Top Model, Coupling, and Ghost Hunters. I don’t mind. I got a bunch of books I can’t wait to read.

    We threw out perhaps $250 worth of food. We had just gone to Costco and I grocery shop every Saturday. I did mind. But it’s gone now and at least the fridge is clean.

     The dense quiet, wading into the black corners of my house, and the ability to hear the wind rush through the windows without straining over the fan, the electronic equipment, and someone’s AC were truly pristine moments. I can live without electricity and get by with a little help from my friends. I didn’t lose anything except my electricity. I have my house, my car, my family, my ferrets.

   Thank you LG&E, thank you KU, and Duke Energy. Thank you linemen who rushed back from Texas to lend a hand to the darkness back home. Thank you to the friends and neighbors who reached out, offered a place to stay, a couch to crash upon, or an invitation just to watch a cable TV movie.

RIP David Foster Wallace Sunday, Sep 14 2008 

     I had been planning to write something maybe funny and lighter than the last posts, but in light of the news of David Foster Wallace’s death, I cannot.

     My first encounter with Wallace’s writing was his collection of short works, Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, then a collection of essays, A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again. I was completely hooked by his use of language, footnotes, and sarcasm. If you and I have talked about books I have most likely insisted you read DFW. I probably offered you my copy to borrow. I probably tried to describe it all and failed miserably. 

     After reading that first book, I wanted my writing to grow up and be like his. I still do.

     Husband actually broke the news of his death to me as both of us sat at our respective desks in our offices. “David Foster Wallace is dead,” he called. I barked out a harsh, “WHAT?” and frantically started searching for the news. A friend had already posted DFW’s 2005 commencement speech at Kenyon.

     My first thought when learning of Wallace’s suidcide was, naturally, ‘Why?’ What demons propel a genius to take his own life? He was brilliant, and widely acknowledged to be so. For some perhaps that is not enough or maybe it’s just not the point. Nobody ever really knows why someone commits suicide. 

     I had a macabre conversation with a writer friend several years ago during which we decided that neither of us is ever going to be a famous writer because we come from pretty mild backgrounds – no alcoholics, abuse, etc. – and neither of us is an addict or has any mental health issues. (Not real ones anyway. People say I’m moody. I’m not. I just have an artistic temperament.) We are no Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton or Virginia Woolf. It was a strange conversation and seems relevant now.

    I was going to write my little wordpress post and go read a book on writing I’m halfway finished with, but I think I’m going to read some DFW. Probably A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again because it’s about cruises and I don’t really want to go on a cruise either. And it’s funny which I hope will stem the tide of dismay and sadness I’m starting to feel.

At Least I Have Skin… Thursday, Sep 11 2008 

     I keep telling people it’s necrotizing faciitis…flesh eating bacteria. I think it’s funny because funny helps me cope, but they usually don’t get it. In reality, it’s a particularly stubborn chronic atopic allergic dermatitis. Something is irritating my skin causing an allergic reaction. Dermatitis, as I’ve learned in the last year, is an infuriatingly vague term for “we don’t know what’s causing your skin problems.”

     It started last October as an innocent little patch of dry skin on my neck. Within months, it had spread, taking over from my nose to my collarbone. Then little itchy bits cropped up on my wrists. Since then, it’s all gone from my normal pale freckly skin to an inflamed, flaky, irritated mess.

    My first dermatologist began treating it by lobbing various cream bombs at me. After two visits and more creams that didn’t do anything, he sent me to a specialist for an allergy patch test where myriad stickers infused with various allergens were firmly affixed to my back for three days. 

     Turns out I have become highly intolerant of four substances: nickel, fragrance, neomycin, and propolis. Sorry Bath & Body Works…we can’t be friends anymore. Bye-bye jewelry, Neosporin, and lavender dryer sheets. I am now living life unscented. Bye-bye candles, bath goop, perfume and 90% of my makeup. I am on a strict makeup diet. And I have a label: “Sensitive skin.”

     First dermatologist, although adorable, wasn’t helping much and always seemed halfway out the door the entire appointment so I found another one who I feel is taking a holistic and somewhat more proactive approach. Unlike the first one, the second one listens to and answers my questions, explains how everything works and at least attempts to be simultaneously upfront and reassuring.

     By the time I got to dermo 2, the itch had burrowed deeper so that no amount of scratching will suffice.  My neck has turned pink. The spots on my wrists are huge and inflamed, and nearly perfectly round, like skin crop circles. Imagine you have the worst sunburn imaginable in your neck and wrist. Combine that pain with the itch of poison ivy. Then start stabbing the inflamed parts with a fork. Repeat until you can’t sleep. Don’t stop. Don’t try to resist the desperate urge to scratch. This is close to what I experience.

     The good news? A biopsy confirmed I don’t have cutaneous t-cell lymphoma (that’s cancer). Today I was shot up with corticosteroids and advised to ingest Zyrtec (that’s “Zyrtec”) once a day for a month. Down the road? Might have to have another patch test. Might be my current dermatologist’s Show & Tell at dermo school. Might just have to learn to live with it.

     My feelings include, but are not limited to: impatience (Can we just DO SOMETHING about this??) , frustration (Why won’t ANYTHING work??), embarrassment (This woman at work continually – loudly - points out when my “rash is back”), fear (Will I have to live like this forever, surreptitiously scratching my neck and wrists?), and a little shame (Some people have REAL problems. I have a skin rash. Can’t I just get over it? And please can we not cry every time we go to the dermatologist’s office?) Sometimes I can’t sleep because of the itch. Sometimes it’s all I can think about. Sometimes it makes me snappy. And it gets me VIP status at the Pity Party of One which in turn makes me feel even worse because, honestly, this cannot last forever and there are more important things to think about.

     A few years ago, I worked with my friend K at a job neither of us loved that was a stepping stone to other things. She and I would IM often at work. One afternoon, someone started an IM thread about skin. Back and forth we went: My skin is so dry! Oh, I have terrible zits! My pores are huge! My forehead is oily! Finally, K, in complete earnestness, wrote, “At least I have skin.” I read it. I read it again. She wrote a follow up: “I can’t believe I just said that.” We both lost it. We excused ourselves to have a full fifteen minutes of belly laughing about her famous comic line, “At least I have skin.” It was macabre and weird, going through all the things you couldn’t do if you didn’t have skin but it was just what we needed at the moment.  Since then, it’s become the refrain with us and a few close friends when things get tough. Burned your cookies? At least you have skin. Got a parking ticket? At least you have skin. Stub your toe? At least you have skin.

     It’s a little messed up right now, but at least I have skin.

Charlotte’s Back Tuesday, Sep 9 2008 

     I discovered one of my writing spiders making her home at the corner of the house, just beyond the drainpipe. That means…last year’s Charlottes’ babies made it and also that fall is coming. Normally I don’t see them appear until late September but it’s been a cool year and I think that makes a difference.

     In case you aren’t a faithful reader and missed the first few posts, this blog is named after a particular spider, the Argiope aurantia or writing spider. Argiopes make a thick squiggle in their webs called a stabilimenta which strengthens the web, makes it easier for birds not to fly into, etc etc. They’re called writing spiders because it was assumed that it was some form of communication. The female builds a web in late summer, lays eggs in late fall, then dies.

    I claimed the writing spider as a sort of seasonal familiar after I had lost my job as an English teacher and realized that writing is my calling. It had been a tough year and I saw this beautiful spider making a web right outside the front door. Further research provided her name and habits. Of course I’d read Charlotte’s Web as a kid but I had no idea she was based on a real animal.

     This year’s First Charlotte is beautiful. If you’ve never seen a writing spider, they’re a little intimidating as spiders go, though they are totally harmless to humans. First Charlotte is beautiful but she is also large and in charge. She’s already got a huge pile of spent prey piled neatly on a leaf by the web. She’s always moving around, fixing things, tidying up. 

     I will try to post a picture of her sometime this week. It’s just rained and the web’s a little bedraggled at the moment.

Candle Cult Home Parties Thursday, Sep 4 2008 

     My mom was sort of into Tupperware when I was a kid. I remember going to Gretchen Zimmer’s house and our moms would cluck approvingly over avocado and marigold colored plastic tubs and matching tumblers. Later in my life, my mom got into Mary Kay and and she was a consultant which meant that once a month or so I would have to hide in my room while several ladies from church or my mom’s work would sit around the dining room table and smear pink goop on themselves. Also, I went to some meetings with her where women would get up and whoop about selling the most lip glosses or whatever. It was nothing compared to the candle cult.

     My first honest-to-goodness home party experience was with PartyLite. I’m not even going to make up a fake name because I want you to know. I want you to know the strangeness that is…PartyLite. (Imagine it’s dark and I’m holding a flashlight under my chin right now, like when you went camping in scouts.)

    For the uninitiated, home parties involve attending a gathering in someone’s home where you are shown products from the consultant’s company and then you are peer-pressured into buying them. Like $150 worth of stoneware baking pans or $300 in skincare made from the finest Swiss botanicals available in the US. There is usually food and some type of camaraderie. You can buy all manner of useful things at such home parties: lingerie, makeup, food items, naughty things for your boudoir, home decor, jewelery. When you get home, you convince your husband that it was a huge bargain and you’ll neeever have to buy lingerie/makeup/etc again ever so you’re really saving money.

     I know all this, the jaded home party socialite that I am now knows, but then…ah, such a babe in arms was I. I didn’t know you were always supposed to buy something! I didn’t know!

     I worked with a woman I’ll call Linda. I’d gone to college with Linda and found myself a few years after graduation working with her at a company in my hometown. We weren’t friends but we were friendly and she included me on an email sent to many of her work and, as I found out later, church friends. I confess, Dear Reader, to not reading the email carefully enough and to letting my crafty nature blind me. I thought she was inviting me to her home to make candles. Wrong.

    I arrived at her modest apartment at the appointed time startled to see so many people there. Linda showed me around – here’s some of the product, here’s the bathroom, we’ll be eating later – then asked me if I’d ever been to a PartyLite show before. She was a little intense about it, like PartyLite was…different or something.

     You know that moment when the shark is swimming around the seal and the seal doesn’t realize it until too late that it’s about to become a crudites for a great white? I was the seal in this scenario. The women were all wandering around talking about how excited they were to buy the new PartyLite line. I started feeling uncomfortable. I didn’t have much money and I didn’t know anybody and I really wanted to leave and the creepy PartyLite Ladies were scaring me.

     The party started with all the Ladies – maybe 15 in all – sitting around the perimeter of the living room. The consultant, Patty, was a plumply rumpled woman in her forties with a frizzled mullet and a kitty chasing a ball of string appliqued on her sweatshirt. She’d been selling PartyLite for years and just loved it because it allowed her to live the life she’d always wanted. I refrained from pointing out that kitty applique sweatshirts are kind of setting the bar low.

     After the icebreaker, Patty went around the room. We were supposed to say where we normally bought our candles and candle products. If you did not say “PartyLite” but instead said, as I did, “Uhhhh….Target? Kroger?” then Patty and the other PartyLite Ladies would frown slightly and then look at each other knowingly. They used to be like that. They used to buy cheap wax-based metal-wick crappy stinky candles just like that. (The horror, the horror.)

     PartyLite’s refrain is that these are the best most researched and developed candles in the whole world and really, you’re an idiot who is endangering your family if you buy cheap wax leaded wick candles. Plus, your family deserves a candle that burns evenly, smells wonderful, and makes your house look very nice. They also sell a ton of “home decor” stuff. Patty started pulling out all sizes and colors of candles for the group to touch and smell and probably lick, but I didn’t see anybody actually do that. I felt like I was in the Stepford candle world, the women smiling and murmuring, “PartyLiiiiiite. Smells so gooooood.” 

   The idea here is that Party Lite women are a different breed of home party goer. Patty? Hard core. Don’t let the kitty shirt fool you. For the next “game” she procured a little wicker basket decorated with ribbons and foil stars. It was full of Party Lite tea lights. We went around the room again. This time, you had a choice. If you wanted to host a PartyLite show in your own home with your friends and share the PartyLite life with them, you got to take a candle of your very own. If not, well…you had to put a penny in the basket. Everybody watched. I heard the intake of breath…then the defeated exhale as I took the basket and dropped a penny in before shoving it at the next woman.

     Patty started passing around catalogs. “Now, while you look at those and make your selections, I’m going to show you the latest in PartyLite home decor!” I will say that the scene of penguins ice skating was adorable and the tealight you nestle behind a snowbank on the edge was just charming, but I choked when I read the catalog price: $60. For cheap glass and a tealight?

     Nobody talked to me the entire party, except Patty whose continued disappointment in me was palpable. Not only did I not own PartyLite products, I was not interested in remedying that by purchasing some today and thus helping Linda obtain her chosen hostess gift, a $60 candle/plate/figurine combo thingy. The other women were too busy comparing PartyLite pieces.

     While Patty was taking orders hand over fist for PartyLite paraphernalia, I grabbed a cookie and reminded Linda I had a babysitting gig in half an hour and thanks, but I had to scoot. I called my friend from my car and told her what had happened. She laughed for a long time.

     I told another friend at work about the party and she was horrified.

     “They all had PartyLite?”

     “Everybody.”

     “And how expensive was it?”

     Linda didn’t really talk to me much after that. I don’t know if my unease had translated to contempt or maybe she overheard me snarking to my friend at work or because I didn’t buy any overpriced candle crap. I do feel bad, Linda, so I’m sorry. But I have never been to another PartyLite party, though I do enjoy other home parties now and have a nice selection of bakeware and makeup.