NaBloPoMo’08, Day 6: Tschochkes

The Boy in on art conference in Toledo this weekend, doing all kinds of fun things to bring innovation to the classroom.

The perks to both of our jobs is that, on occasion, we get to go to conferences that are either sponsored, or attended by wholesalers in the field.  Not unlike medical professionals, The Boy and I will get handed all kinds of tschochkes peddling products: in The Boy’s case, selling art supplies, in mine, life insurance and annuity products.  I can get anything from pens to pen/highlighter-combos, to folders, to lanyards, to highlighters, to coin-purses, to Slinkies, to mints in pop-up tins, to wine totes.  The Boy gets paints, brushes, aprons, pens, highlighters, colored-pencil samples, art bags, and paper.

When I was on my trip to Atlanta in March, I was actually complimented by two top-producing planners on my tschochke-grabbing abilities.  The key is to come in from the side, when two or more people are already at the table, and the wholesaler is in mid-spiel.  That way, you get some bad-ass tschochkes and not caught in a long-winded presentation.

My crowning glory from the Atlanta trip was a bobble-head that was going to go in my office, but I had to leave it behind because there was no room left in my suitcase – and I had taken one of the gigantic suitcases by brother had taken on his first trip to Japan.

I think the other piece that went over really well was a set of “buzzing” magnets that you threw into the air just so and they would “buzz” because of their polarity.  I gave them to The Boy, who left them at my in-laws house, where they can’t be used, because the noise they make causes the dog to barf (I know, I know: only in my life does weird shit like that happen).

I’m excited to see what The Boy might bring home for me this year.  I talked to him today, and he mentioned that the current economic climate had hit art supply wholesalers, too: there weren’t nearly as many tschochke-grab opportunities.  He did say, though, that he got a new apron, and he got me a multi-color highlighter.

Well, maybe if I’m lucky, he’ll bring me a Toledo shot glass for my collection.  And maybe even a little beef jerky from Michigan.

A girl can dream.

Just Dropped In (to See What Condition My Condition Was In)

I wrote in a previous post about a medication I was taken for a condition that I’d been suffering through for half of my life.  I have acne (not just your basic black- or white-heads; I’m talking your full-blown, under-the-muscle, swollen-for-days cysts).    Every day with acne was a nightmare for me, because it wasn’t just a breakout here or there: my face would be swollen, red and painful to the touch from cysts.  And it only got worse as an adult.

So, when I write that I have a “condition”, I can’t promise you that it will kill me, but I can promise you I’ve been through hell treating it.

I have been through every single topical medication and every antibiotic prescribeable for acne.  In addition, I’ve also adjusted my diet, washed my face three times a day, and got acne-clearing facials in an effort to try to clear my skin.  But the problem with cystic acne is that no amount of topical creams, antibiotics or facials will get rid of them.

It’s not just about looking like a model, or feeling like I had to live up to a standard of beauty.  Every day through my teenage years, I had to deal with groupings of breakouts on my face, or a cyst deep in the dermis that would take two weeks to fully disappear.  No matter how much or what kind of makeup I used, I couldn’t cover up my breakouts.  Because I have very fair and very delicate skin, every single cyst, and nearly every breakout has left a scar.  Without full-coverage makeup, I have purple marks all over my cheeks and my chin in a color-coded map of the history of my breakouts.  I have cysts in my scalp that cause me to cry out in pain if I’m not careful when running a brush through my hair.

I believe in loving the skin that you’re in; but when you can’t look co-workers and bosses in the face because you are embarrassed and convinced that all they can see is a cyst, there is no amount of self-love that can take that humiliation away.  Employers and clients don’t take you seriously if you are covered in acne.  And when it comes to getting jobs, I certainly would not have gotten a second interview if I had a serious breakout that I couldn’t cover up.

I was 21 when I started my first course of Accutane.  It was the first time in ten years that I had clear skin.  It was tough trying to find a lip balm that would actually help with my perpetually-chapped lips, and the moisturizer that I had to use on my skin was very expensive, but it was worth it to have clear skin for the first time in years.  And it was worth it to go through that time so that I could not have to worry about another acne-medicated face wash again.

Everything changed when I got a Mirena IUD.  Suddenly, I had an influx of hormones that I didn’t have before.  I was able to wax some of the excess hair, but the acne came back.  It wasn’t as bad as before, but about as painful, and particularly embarrassing for work in a field where I see people every day.  All of the original feelings of humiliation and self-loathing came back, as acute and as tear-inducing as when I was a teenager and in college.  (In the back of my head, when I finished my first course of treatment with Accutane, I always sort of knew that I would have to go on it again.  There are a lot of patients who take multiple courses of Accutane therapy.)

Millions of people are just like me, who suffer through painful breakouts, who are so embarrassed by their skin, they can’t bear to show it in public.  We have online support groups; we have people who love us and hate to see us suffer in our own private hell, fighting so hard against our own skin; we have doctors who are willing to listen and give us options.  For some of us, it’s not “something we’ll grow out of” or “not that bad” or about “loving the skin you’re in”.  For some of us, it’s a public hell that we have to fight in private every day.  But we won’t have a magnetic support ribbon to stick on the back of our cars, and we won’t have anyone racing for our cure, and we won’t have have foundations set up to help with our medical bills.  I’m okay with that: I certainly don’t need a magnetic ribbon, a race, or a bowl-a-thon to feel like I’m being helped in some remarkable way.  I think what I’m really asking for is that for people who have never had to deal with painful, scarring acne be kind and understanding to those of us who do.

Accutane was a godsend for me.  It is a godsend for hundreds of thousands of other people who have suffered with me.  I am happy to stand with those people and say, honestly and truly, that this medication saved my life by treating what had previously been an untreatable, chronic condition.

My message is clear: if you have acne, if you have cysts, if you have spent years and thousands of dollars on medications, creams and washes to treat your skin and nothing has helped, be your own best advocate.  Go to a dermatologist, keep records of your condition, make sure that you are seen an evaluated, cry if you must, but be strong, and be firm.  And if you are a parent, please listen to your son or daughter, and be their best advocate if they can’t be their own – I was so lucky that my mother listened to and understood my pain and humiliation with my acne.  My biggest regret was that I didn’t go on Accutane sooner when I had the chance.  Our skin is the only organ that other people get to see; the reality is that we are judged our skin.  So when there a problem with our skin that is treatable, non-permanent, and has no effect on the content of our character, why wouldn’t you do everything you could to help?

Objects of my Affection

(Please note: this post has been edited from its original posting.)

For two years (summers and Christmas breaks) in college, I worked as a cashier for an independently-owned chain of grocery stores here in Cleveland.  It was one of two jobs that I said I wanted to do before I died: grocery store cashier, and retail.  Neither were the most glamorous job in the world, but I am grateful that I worked them; they taught me quite a bit about myself (and taught me to appreciate the job I have now).

This story is about the most important lesson I learned about myself while working at the grocery store.

The location that I worked at catered to the wealthiest of all of the stores’ clientele.  The wealth of this particular neighborhood is not the wealth of Orange County, or even the Hills; but for a rust-belt city that has been known as one of the poorest cities in the nation, the $10 million net worth mark is considered extremely wealthy.  In the two years I worked there, I had two American Express Black cards pulled to pay for groceries, local TV celebrities shopped at my store, and even a few Cavaliers and Browns players would come through on a Thursday night to avoid a crowd.

The biggest (and perhaps worst) impact that this time in my life had was that I began to see the not-so-subtle cues about being wealthy.  I saw large and many diamonds in jewelry, designer handbags like Chanel, Coach, and most-prevalent, Louis Vuitton.  I saw women who would have Chanel sunglasses with Tiffany diamonds while “popping in” to the grocery store in their (Bebe Sport) workout togs.  I saw Lexus keys on key chains, BMWs parked in the lot, and Mercedes in line to wait for the packers to load their cars.  I saw women well into their 50s looking as tan as Tahitian ladies in a Paul Gauguin painting, with $500 haircuts, wearing clothing that cost more than my entire wardrobe.

(As an aside: I remember the woman who really epitomized this whole look. She was absolutely stunning. She had to be about 45-50; had beautiful, tan, tight skin, and had the most gorgeous glossy-black long hair. She always wore 2-carat diamond earrings and Chanel sunglasses, drove an Accura, and usually dressed impeccably. I don’t think I ever talked to her directly, but apparently, she was pretty friendly with a lot of our bag boys and male managers (go figure). She would flit about the store, laughing and smiling the whole way through, a trail of men behind her – but she always seemed just a little cold.)

I was jealous of the money, jealous of the status, jealous that these women didn’t have to worry about wether they would be able to pay for gas and a night out with friends.  I was jealous that these women’s most agonizing decision with their money was which boutique they shopped at made them more important than their other wealthy friends.

Several of these wealthy women used to take great delight in making us cashiers completely miserable.  From the most complicated bagging orders, to tearing down a fellow cashier in front of you, to grabbing a manager and tearing you down to him while you were standing right there.  These women were not happy people: and there was not a time in my life where I was made to feel more small.

Despite myself, I began to covet the objects that I perceived to be signs of wealth, which has followed me past my tenure at the grocery store and into my current life.  My first purchase of the signs of opulence was a Louis Vuitton wallet. I’ve bought an authentic Coach bag as a sign that I had “made it” when I became employed where I am currently.  My “upgrade” engagement ring took me from a 1/2 simple diamond on a plain band to a 1-carat diamond on a band with 20 pave-set diamonds.  I did all of this to be seen as wealthy, to be a part of that exclusive club of women.

While I enjoy my nice accouterments, I’m equally repulsed that I hope that people who see them think I’m as wealthy as I want to project. I think that I will always be plagued with this ardent desire to look rich, while the more composed part of myself knows that things aren’t always as they appear.

To be fair, not all of these wealthy women were complete witches.  I met a lot of very pleasant wealthy women as I rang them through my line: they are women that I have stopped and had a conversation with if I run into them now.

But I recognize now that most of the women who had all of these “nice” things that I came to covet, were the same women who loved to take two hours out of their week and make everyone they came in contact with miserable.  Though I like having my nice things and hope that I get noticed for them, I am so grateful that I don’t have to drag people down and make them as miserable and empty as I am.  Perhaps that is the saving grace of that period in my life: I know that I am quintessentially more than my stuff.

Wildlife Preserve

On my way out to a party on the far west side, I stopped by Miss Mary Kay’s parents house, as she is in Cleveland for a wedding and to visit her clients here in Cleveland.  Miss MK’s family lives in a semi-spacious area of Cleveland – it’s not like my house in Geauga County, but it’s close.

At any rate, as I pull into her driveway, there are four deer chillin in the yard, eating.  I sat in the car for about five minutes just watching them, and taking a few pictures on my camera phone.  Even out in Geauga, I don’t get to be that close to the deer.  One of the deer was still pretty brazen and stood their watching me as I went to the front door.

Miss MK answers the door with her nephew, and I point out the deer in her front yard, and she’s like, “Oh my God, get inside, quick.”

Later, she confesses to me that maybe she’s turned into a bit of a city girl.  My response?  Well, maybe a little.  I mentioned on my way out the door, that I need to be a little fair.  It’s hard to be afraid of a dopey-eyed deer when I’ve had a racoon try to climb in the car and make friends when I was smoking.  Rabies at midnight strikes more fear into my heart.

Not a Disclaimer, but an Ownership

When writing a blog, it’s easy to forget that these words are forever. When you set them loose on the Internet, that’s it: they are out there, in cyberspace, interminably.

I sent this blog address to someone, comfortable at first with the things that I’ve written here. Then, as I was reading over some of the older entries, I had doubts about what I had said. Was I really ready to own the things that I have said in the past, knowing that I’m not necessarily the same person that wrote those words before?

The reality is that people change. That some words that have been said in the past aren’t necessarily true anymore. That having put these words out for the whole world to see means that I have to own them for what they are. Some of the words that I have said do not apply to me anymore. And some of those words I wish that I had never said, and some of those words I wish I could take back.

I had taken down all of the posts that I transfered from the old blog to this one. And then, I got called out on it by the person who I’d sent the link to, and the words were, “I am going to read all the articles on your page, but please tell me where I have to look for the [odious] things you [wrote]. Do you believe it will change my mind about you?”

That statement stuck me more than anything else: I worry that some of the things I have written might be deal-breakers regarding some of my friendships.

I have always advertised myself as an open book. I’ve said that there are few things that I regret in this world. But the reality of the situation is that because I am not that person anymore, and I am not necessarily proud of the person that wrote previous words, I still have to admit that I once was that person.

And so, I put the posts back up.

My hope is that the people who know me, and want to know me, will understand that I have grown profoundly in the last two years. And the people who know me now like me, warts and all. I hope that they can still love me, perhaps more so because they know more of the truth about me.

So I must own those posts as part of my past. Though some of the words I’ve said aren’t quite true anymore, some of the other ones are. And if I’m ever asked to verify which ones are still true, I will answer honestly.

I am me: I have been through some traumas in my life, but I have also overcome a lot of them. I’m still a process, as I believe I always will be. But who isn’t in the process of becoming who they are?

But I have learned a lesson: words, once written, have to be owned. I must be careful of the things I say. This does not mean that I will not be honest about what I write, but it does mean that the things I say will be tempered with reason. Only then can I look back on some of the things I have written and not cringe. Sure, some words will be like the mutton-sleeved 80’s prom dress, but at least they won’t be words that I am ashamed to have written.