Protect and Defend

When I was younger, I was a kickin' feminist.  Here's an early example: after I saw Top Gun, I decided I wanted to be a fighter pilot.  When I told my dad, he informed me that I could not be a pilot.  And as you might expect, I went from zero to 60: "Why?  Because I'm a girl?  That's so sexist!  I can do anything I want -- and I can do it better than any boy!"  He remained unfazed by my rant and calmly responded, "No.  Because you're nearsighted." 

...Oh.

I have always been fiercely independent.  (If I ever ask for your help, it's mission critical.  And it took a lot -- like "natural disaster" a lot -- for me to even ask.)  I was the only girl in my old office that changed the water cooler.  I'm the kid who would take out the trash.  I would change the oil in the car (yes, I can do that), and multiple other tasks that -- as my friend Joanne would say -- were not within my stereotypical gender role.  Apparently lots of women want to be rescued.  I'm not sure if that comes from Cinderella princess stories that are shoved down our throats as children or from hormones...but it's always been a difficult concept for me to understand.  I was taught to take care of myself.   I've actually been accused of being too independent.  My response?  ...no such thing.

But moving cross-country and getting a divorce at the same time took a toll on me last fall.  (And I don't recommend this type of multi-tasking, just fyi.)  I cried a lot.  After a particularly difficult conversation with my ex, I hung up the phone choking on sobs.  When I looked up, Toby --who is my roommate's dog-- was at my side.  Toby, as it turns out, is a protector.  He did not leave my side for the next month.  When I cried, Toby was there.  I retreated to my room, Toby came with me.  I went outside for some air, Toby was by my side.  I'd never experienced that.  The only thing he wanted was for me to be ok.  No questions asked.  Nothing expected in return.  To need help -- and not have to ask for help -- was ...nice.  And new to me.

In February, my friend Ryan (who you'll remember is HUGE in Pittsburgh's gay community) came for a visit.  It was the most fortuitous social visit I have ever received.  In the midst of his visit, I was battling with a mortgage broker who (in a nutshell) was attempting to take advantage of me.  Let me back up a moment and explain.  I'm a smart girl.  But I'm also lazy.  And I believe that we should all do what we're good at.  Numbers, as it turns out, are not my thing.  Yeah, I made "A's" in math, but it takes more effort for me than other subjects.*  And when people start explaining things like prime rates and HUD 1 forms, I automatically tune out. ( ...I assume this is an instinctual response.  Mother Nature knows I need to save my limited energy for other matters.  Like ...shoes...stupid movie quotes.  You know, worthwhile things.) 

*The age-old joke that lawyers are bad at math is actually not a joke.  I considered pursuing a Masters in Women's Studies until I realized I would have to take the GRE and endure numbers and equations again. The LSAT incidentally has no math.  Hence, I became an attorney.

Ryan happens to flip houses, and he understands HUD 1 forms and mortgage brokers (-- and the fancy commissions they make when they don't explain options and attempt to take advantage of others).  As I reviewed and signed various forms, I began asking Ryan questions.  He paused.  He looked at the forms.  He asked questions of me.  He took my blackberry and asked questions of the broker.  And when the two of us went to drop off the signed paperwork, and I received a veiled reply to "my" questions from said broker, Ryan took charge of the situation.  We were literally in the lobby, about to drop off the forms that would determine my mortgage interest rate, my monthly housing payments, and hence my financial future.  Ryan looked at the response.  He looked at the forms.  He declared, "We're leaving."  And off we went.  I tottled after him in my four inch heels...obedient, yet clueless . 

Ryan took me to a local credit union.  We sat down with Alicia the mortgage specialist, and the two of them -- in sum -- saved my financial life.  Ryan took care of everything.  He knew what to ask.  He knew what to look for.  When my debt to god-knows-what ratio was too high, he flipped Alicia's computer screen around and discovered a couple of egregious errors in my credit report (incidentally, my student loan payment is not $3,000 a month) .  He added "points" so that my closing costs matched the seller's contribution.  And most importantly, he lowered my interest rate by three entire points.  Three.  Entire.  Points.  Perhaps you don't understand the magnitude of this.  Interest rates fluctuate by an eighth of a point at a time.  He brought that number down 24 times.  Allow me to channel Anchorman -- this was a really big deal. 

My heart all but exploded with gratitude.  (At one point during the process,  I turned to Ryan and said, "If you weren't gay, I would totally have sex with you right now."  Alicia laughed.  Ryan politely requested that I keep my female parts to myself.)  I had not ever experienced such heroic behavior.  Ryan not only took control of the situation, but he also completely alleviated the problem.  I had such love and admiration for him in that moment.  I felt so completely cared for...like a womb of (financial) safety. 

I don't know what this means for my future as a feminist.  Any day now, they might knock on the door and revoke my card.  Then again, maybe this is a sign of maturity -- to be able to give up control and trust someone with your whole (again, financial) being.  I'm not changing my stance on being independent.  I don't NEED to be rescued.  But I've decided that sometimes...just sometimes... I would like to be.

Unfunded Mandates

I hate driving.  And I've never driven as much as I have since moving to Southern California.  If I had any other choice -- a train, a bus, a dog-sled -- I would take it.  But in SoCal, the car is king.  So I drive.  Unfortunately, so does everyone else.  And that sad fact confirms my belief that a driver's license should be way, way harder to obtain.... 

Driving was not mandated on the East Coast.  In DC,  I had ample alternatives for transportation.  True, I complained about each and every one - but at least they were there.  Everyone I've ever met has been  impressed with the metro (our version of the subway) in DC.  The carpeted, color-coded metro system was pure bliss when I first arrived in our nation's capitol.  Granted, because all city stops are underground, I didn't know where the hell I was or how I got there for my first three years (much like the Floo Network in the wizarding world ...).  But it took me where I needed to go.  I didn't worry about gas prices.  Or car insurance.  Or parking.

Of course the problem with public transportation is that anyone can take it.  And who did I hate the most?  Not the bureaucrats dressed entirely in tan with their lanyards and work badges on after hours (how super-swell that you work for the Chamber of Commerce).  Not the tourists either.  It was the interns.  More specifically, the summer interns.  Interns and tourists are both necessary evils in the nation's capital.  Here's the difference:  tourists know they're not important.  Interns don't. 

I loved overhearing (and by "overhearing" I mean "making fun of") metro conversations between 19-year-olds discussing how the Senator was relying on them to report back from such-and-such hearing and it was vital that the memo be finished tonight.  Or how intern #2 had spent all day researching a constituent issue in the Library of Congress and had brought home multiple documents to read in order to properly inform this constituent about why we have daylight savings time.    But the item that annoyed me the most, was that all these interns were in my way.  Not figuratively -- literally.  In the fucking way.

During summer months, interns stood all over the escalators rather than standing to the right and walking on the left -- which is the #1 Rule that must be obeyed in order for a civilized society to function.  (Rule #2 is do not leave your window air conditioner on the porch or the neighborhood crack whore will steal it.  Learned that one the hard way...).  In addition, these interns refused to move to the center of the car, crowding the doors of the train so no one else could exit or enter.  They also reeked from the repulsive stench of stale beer because they were all so hungover from the night before.  So even when I was able to push my way through the masses into the inner sanctity of the car, I threw up in my mouth a little....  (BTW, I never behaved that way when I was 19.  I was an angel.) 

All those years of bitching...I never realized that the alternative was to sit in traffic day and night on "the" 5 or "the" 15.  And now I know why the "the" is used before naming the interstate on the west coast and not the east -- because the fucking interstate is "the" only way to get anywhere.  ...how I  long for an intern to vomit on my shoes in an enclosed underground space.... 

The bus was yet another safe alternative in DC -- no, really.  The schedule was not always reliable, but it made life very simple.  Hell, even the tourist contraptions were a mode of transport for my friends and me.  All my friend Brendan wanted for his 30th birthday was to do a bar crawl via the "Old Town Trolley."  We hopped on.  We hopped off.  We drank.  We hopped on again.  Both the driver and the tourists were super-annoyed at the end of the day --  although I think that was less because of our obnoxious-drunken behavior, and more because our buddy Chris passed out spread-eagle in the back of the tram...and unfortunately for all involved, he was free-balling that day....  But yet again -- how I long to hang in a tourist contraption with my free-balling friend rather than face another commute on the 5. 


Marathon driving is now my reality.  I'm not happy about it.  It's definitely a deterrent at times.  I have a lot fewer people to make fun of on my daily commute...but until I figure out the Floo Network for myself, I guess I'll just keep bitching.

Who Knew?

...not much I can add as far as smart-ass wit...it stands alone...

http://www.aftertherapturepetcare.com/