Many of you have probably stumbled upon the website About.com during your daily internet routine at least one time or another.  It’s a very useful website that offers advice and instruction on pretty much anything. 

Anyway, at the bottom of the site’s main page is a little link that says ‘Be a Guide.’  When you click on this link, you find out that normal people are the ones who write the content you see about anything from Ab exercises to flossing your teeth and they get paid for it!  There is an ever-changing list of available topics, and anyone can apply.  All you have to do is pick which topic you would like to write about, tell the site about your writing experience, yourself, and why you would be qualified to write about whatever topic you chose.  If they pick you they ‘test-drive’ you and several other applicants and then pick the best person for the job.  If you get picked you get to start a little page about your topic, and must write a minimum of one post every two weeks and you can make $750 a month!!  More if you get lots of views on your page! 

I thought this was awesome, and saw that one of the available topics was ‘Herb Gardening.’  Being the avid gardener I am, and considering my intense personal interest in herbs (mostly weed, but I can appreciate oregano and basil and all that too!) and gardening, and using various herbs for cooking, AND the fact that I can write (I think I can, at least- even though this is turning into one hell of a run-on sentence) I decided maybe I would get a chance to be a ‘Guide.’ 

So I sent in my little application and a writing sample and was promptly rejected by the powers that be at About.com.  How sad!  Apparently they’re looking for ‘professional’ writers. 

I’m sick of the word ‘professional’ because instead of meaning ‘an expert in that field’ all it really means is ‘has previously been paid for said activity.’ Well, I may not have been paid for my writing ever, but I happen to be a multi-faceted professional.  I am a Professional Reader, Typist, Researcher, Bullshitter, Small-talker, Phone-answerer, Planner, Gardener, Cleaner, Chef, Customer Service Ass-Kisser, Color Coordinator, Shopper, Money Saver, and Job Applicant.  I also happen to be a Professional Self-Proclaimer… meaning that I have the magical ability to turn instantly from someone with a hobby into a self-named Professional.  So kiss it About.com.  I may continue applying to be a Guide- if you’re lucky- but in the mean time I have an informational Herb Gardening Blog to create.  I may not receive a hefty paycheck for doing it myself, but since I was excited to try it anyway I’m going to do it all by myself- so there.

I could go on and on about this, but I’m sure it’s been done before… so I will make this a short rant.

1.  Why did I think I would have no trouble at all getting a grown-up job after college?  Oh that’s right… because everyone SAID I would, like it was some kind of guarantee!!

2.  How come only the trashiest, most rude and poorly dressed, unprofessional assholes get the best jobs at my County’s courthouse?  You know, the place that has the best starting pay rate, the best benefits, and gets every holiday off.  I guess you have to have a gang tattoo on your wrist and smell like alcohol to qualify to local government jobs in my hometown.

3.  Since when do you have to have 79 years of experience to be a good secretary??  Can’t you just be naturally organized and detail-oriented??

4.  Why on God’s green earth am I working in a shit-hole, raccoon-infested greenhouse and getting treated like crap for $9 measly dollars an hour and no benefits when I spent close to $80,000 on college tuition?? 

5.  Why am I spending all this time and money producing the most perfect resumes on the nicest cream colored paper and pretty much writing my cover letters with a goddamn quill pen using my own blood and not getting ONE phone call back. 

I don’t mean to be snotty, and I don’t think this is snotty… but whenever I go somewhere for personal business or something and see people working my dream jobs (secretary, human resources, anything in an office that doesn’t involve fertilizer or rose thorns) they are rude, look like crap, and don’t even DO anything that really takes any amount of talent or expertise?!  I could do these jobs too!  I could be the perfect secretary, the ideal Human Resources Assistant, even a reliable Call Center Representative!!  I’m not asking for the next position as CEO or even anything that would get me my own phone extension.  All I want is a job that pays double digits and hour and maybe offers benefits so I can go get my shitty old glasses replaced!!!  Why did I go to college if all I had to do to get one of these jobs is wear poor fitting clothing from Sirens and get a couple of visible tattoos and a bad attitude???

 When I was in high school I struggled with your usual teenage problems.  I felt foreign in my own skin, completely alone, and useless.  I also worked myself into a nice little eating disorder too- which was pretty ugly and did not help my teenage angst at all.  It wasn’t like I had a horrible life or anything, I was just a depressed girl with no one to talk to and terribly low self-esteem.

Anyway, as my eating disorder spiraled out of control (like they always do) my poor mother did her best to try and help me.  I refused and refused for the longest time, I loved being at my low weight and had found comfort in the isolated life that eating disorders encourage you to create. 

After an especially scary episode, however, I finally decided to take my mom’s advice (mainly because I couldn’t take the turmoil that was being caused by me at home any more) and went to see a doctor.  My doctor was really nice, she was Scottish and really pretty and skinny so of course I liked her.  I was also under the impression, due to several comments she made during our first visit, that she struggled with an eating disorder at one time or another as well.  Anyway, after some blood tests and all that I was told that if I didn’t improve my nutrition I was going to end up in the emergency room and that I should probably seek treatment.  So I did, and along with treatment guess what else I got?  Anti-depressants.

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*Disclaimer* Antidepressants can really help some people, they could perhaps even save someone’s life.  This is a telling of MY experience with those types of drugs, however, which was horrible, and I personally believe that along with having the potential to do good, anti-depressants can also have the complete opposite effect on some people.  I am in no way saying that no one should take them, my point with this post is that you should always listen to your body, and don’t assume that anti-depressants are your only option.  Please don’t post an assload of comments about how great they worked for you and I don’t know anything/ I’m an asshole for saying they’re bad/You hate me because I am badmouthing prozac/etc.  This is my telling of my reaction. 

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Anyway, off I went to treatment, a semester off school and a full time job of talking about my feelings and my relationship with food, blah blah blah.  I completed treatment, became healed of my eating disorder (well, not really, but I could at least once again function in society), and went back to complete my final year in high school.  One thing that I had to hang onto, along with the mental tools I gained from my stay in the hospital, were those pesky pills that I never liked taking in the first place. 

The first drug I was prescribed is, I believe, what really caused me to crack.  I was messed up before, but after my visit with the Scottish doctor and right before I entered treatment (a span of about 2 weeks), I pretty much went bananas.  I went from counting calories and over exercising (anorexia) to eating 4,000- 5,000 calories a day (sometimes in one or two sittings) and throwing up after each ‘meal’ (bulimia) almost overnight.  I felt like I was going to jump out of my skin, and even felt the need to scratch and scratch myself- one time causing myself to bleed.  I felt like a zombie, hated everyone, and remember laying on the floor numb telling my father that I just hated existing.  After taking this medication for a few weeks, and then being in treatment for a few weeks, I talked to a different doctor and told him I did not like taking anti-depressants because of how they made me feel.  He switched me to a different drug.  Time went by, and like I said, I completed treatment and went back to school. 

I continued taking my prescribed medication for another year, yet still struggled with horrible ‘black moods,’ feeling as though nothing could fix me, and just wanting to cease to exist- a numbness and feeling of hopelessness that I can’t even begin to describe accurately.  I felt like I was just wrong!  Even though I was on this pill that was supposed to keep me from getting in my horrible states, it seemed as though they were worse now than they were before I was taking anything!  I continued to live this way, okay for a few weeks or maybe a month, then would be hit with a feeling of despair so deep I’m amazed I never tried to kill myself (the only thing that kept me from attempting this is the thought of how much it would hurt my mother). 

So I began college, still occassionally struggling with ‘food issues’ (i.e. making myself puke) and began to despise taking my medicine.  I would quit taking it (which is a BAD idea) and would feel even worse, but I knew that I was not myself when I was on it either.  So I would go crazy if I stopped taking it, and would go crazy when I did take it.  I would ask my doctors (three different doctors who I had been seeing since high school) to help me ween myself off (which is what you’re supposed to do when you quit) and they would just switch me to a different pill, which I would then not take because I was pissed.  I would argue with my doctors about whether or not I even needed it, telling them that I was 16 when I started taking it, surely I was different now and maybe no longer needed it.  Maybe my depression was a result of outside factors, not a chemical imbalance.  Their answer to this was: a diabetic can’t just not take insulin anymore- this is something you will have to take the rest of your life.

What a horrible thing to tell a young, thoughtful girl who just happened to have a hard time during her teenage years!!  What I heard when they told me this was:  there is something wrong with you that cannot be fixed, it can only be treated.  The phrase ’situational depression’ was not in their vocabulary, so I finally bit the bullet and threw out all my pills and quit cold turkey.  I do not recommend this, because when you quit abruptly like that it makes your ‘levels’ go totally wacky- leaving you temporarily bat-shit crazy, even if you weren’t that bad to begin with.  But I did it anyway because I figured anything would be better than constantly not feeling like myself and suffering from my ‘black moods.’  Luckily, thanks to smoking pot (I believe- because it got my mind off the bad thoughts I was having as a result of quitting my medicine instead of weening myself off) I managed to survive the following few weeks. 

To this day (4 years later) I have not suffered any ‘black moods,’ have not wanted to kill myself, have not had any urges to return to my old eating disorder habits, and have managed to deal with life’s obstacles.  Sometimes I still get in a bad mood, and feel like I have the weight of the world on my shoulders- but I can still go about my day and don’t feel paralyzed by sadness. 

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I think there are a lot of cases where anti-depressants can be very helpful to people.  But I firmly believe that you cannot just put someone on a pill and forget about them, it’s important to work through whatever is making you depressed, everyone needs coping skills.  And if you are taking medicine and don’t feel like yourself after giving your body a few weeks to adjust, then something is wrong.  You need to establish a working relationship with your doctor and they should listen to you, not brush you off simply because you’re young or you don’t have a medical degree.  If you are taking something and feel weird or feel like something isn’t right or feel like it just isn’t helping you, then you should really talk to someone and perhaps plan a different path for yourself (with the help of a professional of course- don’t do what I did).

Anyway, this is my story of eating disorders, teenage turnmoil, anti-depressants, and doctor’s who maybe need to work on listening to their patients.  During my experience I took varying levels of Paxil, Prozac, Lexapro, Cymbalta, Xanax (which isn’t an anti-depressant), and Fluoxetine (which I was told by my doctor is different than Prozac, but later found out it is just generic Prozac); I was not prescribed Wellbutrin because it can cause people to lose weight, and because of my eating disorder the doctors didn’t want to start anything.

This is what my Search Terms thing on my Dashboard looks like:

Maybe I should start writing about something else.  Every day it’s mainly “drugs” and “kat von d.”  This is not the direction I wanted my blog to go in!  This is what I have become on the internet- drugs, Kat Von D, and Marilyn Monroe.  Oh well, I just hope the people searching for Kat Von Grease Crotch hate her as much as I do.  And I’m not a drug addict, I swear.  I don’t think drug addicts have blogs. 

So I’ve been having a difficult time lately, moving back and forth between Canada with my husband and Illinois with my parents, the immigration process, and a general feeling of “I haven’t accomplished anything with my life!”

Along with my usual issues and everyday things that annoy me, the above things have been heavy on my mind for over a year now.  So I’ve learned to live around them I guess, even though immigrating to Canada has kind of steered my life and the choices I make (as far as working/ going back to school).  But I really have felt like a shell of my former self for a long time due to current and past events.  I even feel like I look old from it!  I’m always nervous about something or mad or stressed. 

So as I was taking my smoking walk (where I sneak through the alleyways sucking down a secretive cigarette after dinners) I was rehashing a fallout with a college friend.  The issue has annoyed me ever since it happened, especially because- even though the said ‘falling out’ was clearly the end of a friendship, this girl still writes me occasionally- writes me shallow pointless notes that signal anything but a reconcilliation- but anyway, I was thinking about how much this girl annoys me and how dumb she is, and then I thought very clearly almost saying it outloud to myself “she is so concerned with what other people think that she doesn’t have any real feelings of her own.”  And then I stopped in my tracks because, HELLO?!  That’s ME.  It might be her too, but that was a very clear message from my brain to me that I have been way too concerned with what other people think, and in turn have lost myself! 

It seems obvious maybe, but I have been much too concerned with how my husband looks at me, what his parents and family thinks of me, what my extended family thinks, what The Girlfriends at the hockey games think, and I could go on and on.  So, honestly, how does one stop caring what other people think?  Why can’t I just pick up and go do what I want (go to school somewhere warm, get a good job, sign up for a yoga retreat overseas, etc.)?  I’m always too busy worrying about how stupid I look, and end up looking stupid because I am putting my life completely on hold.

Forget that, time to stop it. 

Stupid Questions!

Everyone asks stupid questions sometimes, maybe they just want to hear themselves talk.  Maybe they didn’t think before they asked.  Maybe they’re just plain dumb.

I hear a lot of stupid questions throughout my day, but my FAVORITE stupid question of them all is the one I will be focusing on.  So bear with me, it will take a little background information….

First you should know, I have a younger brother (my only sibling if you don’t count my dog-sisters) and along with many other unique characteristics- an intense interest in the keyboard, a passion for Hershey Kisses- and deep hatred for any other type of chocolate, a disproportionate big laugh for his thin frame, and living as one of 5 remaining Randy Travis fans, and eyelashes that women pay money for- he also happens to be disabled, physically and cognitively.  He was born 3 months early, had a ‘headbleed’, uses a wheelchair, is blind, etc.  But, he’s extremely healthy and (which may throw someone off as pegging us siblings) he is always happy. 

So my brother is disabled, which has led him down a different path than others.  He doesn’t go to your typical regular education classroom, he isn’t going to go to college, and he will always live with my parents (which isn’t that different when you look at all the post-grads living in mom’s basement I guess- minus the online gaming).

So whenever people I’m getting to know for the first time eventually ask me about my family, they ask if I have any siblings.  I say I have a younger brother and go on to talk about his age, his interests, etc.  Well when people hear that he is 20 they usually ask about school or college, which leads me to explain his disabilities.  And I kid you not…. 9 times out of 10 the next question goes as follows:

What is his life expectancy?

WHAT?!  And they always ask me with the same nonchalance as if they were asking what color his hair is.  As much as I get asked that question, it never fails to amaze me how fucking stupid everyone is.  Really.  That’s a stupid question.  If you ever meet someone who happens to have a disabled friend, family member, whatever, don’t ask them that.

The last fucking moron to ask me this question was my husband’s grandmother.  She’s usually the most polite person in the world- Grandpa was a mayor back in his day so she’s down with socializing- so this shocked me.  My eyes glazed over and I shrugged and said “I don’t know, normal?”  I should have asked her what hers was, and reminded her that the average life expectancy for Canadians is 80- was she getting nervous?

So that is by far, the most stupid question I have ever been asked.  What is even more stupid is how often I hear it!  What if it’s 21- and we were all terrified that this could be his last year with us?  Not every disability is terminal!  Do you ask someone who’s just been diagnosed with cancer what their life expectancy is?  How can anyone even know that?!?!  And something about my husband’s family (because I’m pretty sure they have all asked the exact same question) is the follow up response to that question, which is usually a story about disabled people getting gassed.  I kid you not.  Gas.

The first time I met my husband’s parents my brother’s disabilities came up, and after the life expectancy question, my father-in-law goes on to inform me that during the Holocaust the Nazis threw handicapped people in the gas chambers alongside the Jews and homosexuals.  Grandma, on the other hand, had a much more original segue.  She, upon hearing about my brother, was reminded of the heartwarming story of the man in Saskatchewan had a disabled daughter and took her out to his car and gassed her because he couldn’t stand to see her suffer.  He’s in jail now, but if he gets out I would like him to gas me too because that’s a hell of a lot better than living in Saskatchewan, thank you.  But, honestly, how am I not in jail for assualting my inlaws?  The Ultimate Stupid Question is one thing- surprisingly everyone pulls that original out of their ass with me- but the follow-up gassing tales? 

My brother may be the disabled individual in this story, but being a rude fucking idiot is a much worse affliction.

Possible future answers to “What is his life expectancy?”

• 457
• longer than yours (*Kill Idiot*)
• The doctors say 20 (*long pause*)  Oh my God!!! (*weep*)
• Well, actually we’re having him cloned…
• Whenever my dad decides to install that gas chamber
• Favorite:  Well that’s a stupid question, isn’t it?

In April my grandfather passed away.  He was one of a kind, and I mean that- anyone who ever met him would say the same.  He was caring, generous, hard working, and oh so wise.  He accomplished so much in his life that I can’t even begin to list everything.  He was funny, and had some of the best sayings I’ve ever heard, but never did wrong by anyone.  He would help anyone who needed it, and even though a lot of people took advantage it never seemed to bother him.  He always taught me that being a hard worker is a wonderful thing, not to get involved with nonsense, and to always keep learning.

I could write a book about how wonderful my grandfather was and how much he accomplished and how much he taught and inspired me, and I miss him every day.  I know my whole family does too.  His funeral was the first one I have ever attended, and it was probably one of the saddest days of my life.  I knew how much I would miss seeing him sitting on his porch, watching the wild turkeys behind his barn, the smell of his house, listening to him tell stories about his life, and Nike Sneakers.

I am still grieving after losing him, and think about him every day.  I look for signs from him, and don’t care if it’s silly.  The day my mom called me to tell me he died, she had been staying with him in Pennsylvania to help take care of him during his last few months, it was early in the morning.  I felt sick, and wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself- this was the first time anyone close to me had died.  I went to work, because I knew I couldn’t sit home until my flight to go to his funeral.  Work didn’t keep my mind off things, but it kept me from going crazy.  I recalled the “Pennies from Heaven” stories from Dear Abby that I had learned about just a few weeks before, and I wished I would find a penny.  Sure enough, I found one in a weird spot that very day.  Now, you may think that it’s easy to come across a stray penny, but it was comforting.

The day my mother picked me up from the airport, I remember riding along the curvy roads from Pittsburgh to the tiny Italian town where my grandfather lived, and seeing a rainbow.  That too comforted me.

At his funeral we were all touched by how many people came, how many people had their own memories and stories about him. 

The most comforting experiences for me, besides rainbows and pennies, occurred later in the summer.  And once again just a week ago. 

My grandfather took up the hobby of beekeeping just a few years ago.  And it is not a simple hobby either!  He made all his own beeboxes, ordered his queens from catalogues, read and read about all aspects of bee culture, and sold his honey at the farmer’s market.  He was good at beekeeping, and even though he had not been doing it for long many people admired his skill.  And there was never a shortage of honey in our family either!  The first time my husband (then boyfriend) came to Pennsylvania to meet him, Pap (that’s what we called my grandfather) suited him up, put a smoker in his hands, and took him down to the bee boxes to smoke out the hives and check the honey status.  This was hilarious, and sweet.

So a few months after he died, I was riding my bike in a newly discovered forest preserve, and as thoughts of him passed through my mind a bee flew directly into my forehead and a turkey crossed my path- simultaneously.  To me, this was a sign from Pap- a bee and a turkey, two creatures he had ties with, in my face at  the same time.  I loved it.

Last week, while getting some watercolors to paint a picture of his sweet house for my mom for Christmas, another bee to the face- in November, in Canada, inside, mind you.

Whatever you feel happens when we die, I am convinced that our loved ones are somehow able to show us little signs here and there to let us know they’re okay and that they love us.  Those bees to the face and the turkey crossing my path, and even the penny and the rainbow, filled me with love and comfort and I know they were messages from Pap to me. 

I often get reminders and hints throughout my days, especially during difficult times and times of enlightenment- from no one in particular, but these signs from my grandfather are the most dear to me, and I will never fear a bee sting!

I also find  it interesting that so many beehives are dying the same year he passed.

I See 33 Dead People!!

For the past several months (perhaps even a year) I have been seeing the number 33 all the time.  It seems like other people have this happen to them too! 

http://home.earthlink.net/~ktd_33/33MysteriesLINKS.html

Is 33 just a very common number or are we experiencing something significant? 

The number 33 represents a lot of powerful things; religious, spiritual, mathematical, etc.

Anyway, the guy who made the 33 website has been seeing it for over a decade, I’ve just been seeing if for several months.  But it’s WEIRD!  And I see it at weird times, that aren’t a coincidence, and always when I’m feeling pensive or troubled about something.  I like seeing it… but then I freak out and think maybe I’m going to die when I’m 33 or something creepy like that!  But most of the time I like seeing it, and was totally weirded out when I found the above website.

3333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333

Is it wrong that I have no ambition to DO anything 80% of the time?  I’m not working right now because I’m waiting for my work visa, and we’re pretty broke so I don’t go on shopping sprees or roadtrips or anything. 

But most of the time, I’m perfectly content sitting in my apartment watching tv, cooking, and exploring the vastness of the internet.  Should I be losing my mind with all this time at home or is it okay that I enjoy it?  I always feel guilty for not doing anything but what the hell could I do?  I guess I could volunteer, go for walks, ride my bike, etc.  But I like just being at home!  I like watching daytime television, doing yoga, and reading. 

And then I have the nerve to make fun of people who don’t do anything!  I guess I feel like since I’ve gotten everything that I need to do taken care of (groceries, job-hunting, work visa) that now I can kick back, smoke some pot, and do NOTHING. 

The other day I wrote about how excited I was to be getting a couch.  I ordered one LAST MONTH and have been waiting patiently, sitting on the floor. 

It finally arrived and was delivered to my apartment, it was beautiful and nearly brought a tear to my eye. 

Unfortunately… the fucking couch didn’t fit through my door!!!  Well, I think it could have fit- the delivery men only tried for about 5 minutes, and I think if they angled it then maybe…. whatever.  Long story short I’m still sitting on the floor.