EastGirlsWest

East Girl blogging from Sausalito right now, taking advantage of the free wi-fi at Cafe Trieste. We drove up last night, and are staying with The Future Sister-in-Law and her family in Santa Rosa. It’s lovely here today - sunny, breezy, and NOT hot.

Just spent some time at the Heath Ceramics factory/store where we picked out new shower tile and bought some dishes (much needed since we only have four). Then we came here and The Betrothed ate a meatball sandwich bigger than my head.

I’ll provide a full road trip report when we return home on Monday, but I’m writing now because I wanted to share an exciting bit of news: my medication has finally been approved by Pacificare!!! I’m just waiting for the pharmacy to ship it to me, and I should be able to get started sometime next week. Joy and elation.

Okay, not really. More like From the Couch. But I was on the elliptical last night, and it was miserable because Angela wasn’t here. Angela left me for a weekend in Sedona with her family (the nerve!). So I went to gym alone, which I was dreading and whining about because it was so. freaking. hot. And then The Betrothed gently inquired, isn’t the gym is air conditioned? To which I explained that even though that is, technically, true…there is something about the overwhelming smell of sweat that hits me in the face when I walk in there, and the sense that my body is instantly coated with it, even before I begin generating my own perspiration, that psychologically makes it FEEL like the gym is not, in fact, air conditioned.

Have you experienced this at your gym? Or is it just ours because it’s located in a mall?

Bottom line: elliptical + insane heat + sweat fumes + no Angela = unhappy Jess

But now Angela has returned from an even hotter place than here, and we will be reunited in the cardio enterprise tomorrow night.

It just never ends with the goddamn health insurance. Which, as previously established here at EGW, tends to make me EVEN MORE SICK.

I pulled my head out from under the pillow this morning - after dropping it there is a fit of frustrated tears inspired by dear Pacificare - long enough to read Dooce. And she’s apparently having her own issues with the rat bastards who are running health care in this country like a totalitarian regime. Which inspired me to air my own grievances…again.

In this particular case, I am trying, hoping, crossing my fingers, praying, pleading, cajoling and harassing in order to get my insurance provider to approve an expensive medication I really, really need (I’d add “threaten” to the list, but they are unafraid). I’m pretty sure they’re going to approve it, but it is clearly in the Pacificare manual and mission statement that they must TORTURE ME first. With a maze of beaurocracy and circular logic and an immensely long wait time.

I can’t possibly hear the words approve, authorize or verify ever, ever again.

Are they hoping I’ll just give up? Is the plan to make me die of sheer frustration and utter hopelessness before I get to fill the prescription? One thing is clear: they are definitely not in the business of caring for my health.

If there is an upside, it’s been the erosion of my fear of taking this drug. You see, I have to self-inject it into my thigh once a week. I am weak-kneed and fussy when it comes to things like this, and I had been dreading the moment when I came face-to-face with that needle for the first time. But now? Now that I’ve been BEGGING for it for months, feeling physically even worse (thanks to the wait), and filled with vengenance towards Pacificare - now I can’t wait to stick myself with that needle. HA! THAT WILL SHOW THEM!

Oh my god. Do you see what they’ve done to me?

I remember when I was in elementary school, 4th grade, I think, we had an event called ‘Pioneer Day’. We spent days stocking up a fleet of red, Radio Flyer wagons with all the necessary supplies: tent stakes, rope, snacks, basic tools and sleeping bags. We made covers for the wagons out of thick manilla paper, and organized ourselves into small families for the great pretend trip west.

When Pioneer Day came, we lined up at one of the grassy acres behind the playground, and then our teacher rang a bell to begin the Land Rush. At the sound of the bell we ran like crazy, pulling our wagons, panting to outrace the competition for the best land claim. When we reached the prized piece of land that we wanted, we pulled out our tent stakes, roped off our area, and went to find the teacher who would measure and value our claim.

This was our bland, hopeful, sterilized version of westward expansion. In our homemade pioneer costumes, it all seemed fairly simple.

Joan Didion is from California, and she explores it’s settlement and growth in the incredible book Where I Was From. But her book isn’t a love letter to The Golden State. Instead, she methodically takes apart the myths that define the move west - especially to California - for many Americans. Brave, adventurous pioneers crossing the Sierras? Try heartless, greedy opportunists who left young orphans abandoned in the mountains, starving and bound to freeze to death. Hearty, hard-working settlers with an entrepreneurial spirit? They courted and relied upon federal money from the start. A booming post-war economy that helped grow idyllic, middle class communities? Look at the slow demise of town of Lakewood, and how it bred the infamous Spur Posse.

In Didion’s revised view of her home, the stories and the statistics are often bleak and unsettling. One of the last chapters in the book focuses on the California prison system, noting that in 1995, the state began spending more on its prisons than its two university systems.

In an NPR interview from a few years ago, Didion, a fifth-generation Californian, said she grew up feeling about her home state: “..we paid this immense price to get there…and we were now safe and redeemed and living in this very remote place.”

My voyage to California took place in my 1997 Volkswagen pulling a UHaul trailer, with two of my best friends from my childhood, my past, where I’m from. Driving me to the Pacific Ocean and into my future. Our own dicey moments in crossing the Rockies never amounted to more than turning on the heat to keep the radiator from extreme temperatures. And reaching Las Vegas felt like a surreal stop in a Gold Rush town on steroids after two days in the grand Rocky Mountains and the vast, still desert of Utah.

I’m not sure I felt safety or redemption upon arrival, although I was relieved - in an old fashioned kind of way - at having achieved safe passage. And to me, as an outsider who has settled here, California does seem to have a fearless embrace of what is next, what is new, what is most modern. Although unlike Didion’s experience, I feel this is often at the expense of the past, for which there is little reverence. It is a complicated place, despite it’s sunny disposition.

I know people tend to either love or hate Didion, and I have to confess to being a fan. This book really amazed me, and I could go on and on…but will stop here. If you’ve read it, please comment and let me know your thoughts. If you haven’t, I recommend. Especially if you live here.

So in six weeks, my sister is moving in with us. That’s right: driving her Honda from Austin to San Diego and setting up camp in the guest bedroom. I know, you’re
wondering how The Betrothed got tricked into this, right? No trickery involved, I promise. Or pleading, even. He claims to fine with it all, and I’m inclined to believe him.

Anyway, Tay (as she’s known within the family, long story), is Quite Something. A tall, blonde, gorgeous, glamourous, funky, cool rock star type. You know, exactly the kind of person you want for a sister. And even though she wears things like fingerless gloves, which I would not be caught dead in, she does have some items of clothing that I like to play dress-up in. I mean, who doesn’t wannabe a glamourous, cool rock star type once in awhile?

We talk about 12 times a day, and conversation number seven just went like this:

“I have a new vintage dress. Thirty dollars, it’s totally hot.”

“Oh my god, I can’t wait until you move in and I have full access to your wardrobe.”

“I’m not going to lie to you - it will enhance your life.”

“I know! Of course, I realize my wardrobe won’t exactly do the same for you.”

“Well, you know, your clothes might be good on those days when I just want to…”

“DON’T even say it!”

Friday’s Maureen Dowd column was all about the decisions and options related to name-changing when one gets married. I find that despite my age, and my firm desire to keep my name, it’s still a decision I think about, mainly because there seems to be no good option for women. As one newlywed who created a new last name with her husband said:

“I really wanted him to understand what it meant to be a woman entering into this — either change your name or not have the same name as your kids.”

Our friend Dave has suggested a joint last name of Yorkson. And I could always go the hyphenated route, I guess. I really don’t want to change my name though. Honestly, it sounds like a huge pain in the ass. And IT’S MY IDENTITY. But Hanson is the name of my father and grandfather, two men I don’t have any particular desire to carry on the family name for. Maybe it’s just spite, but I think, why would I keep the name of these men I have not-so-good feelings for? And not share a name with a man I’m deeply in love with? And with whom I am about to begin a lifetime partnership?

But perhaps Hanson has been successfully co-opted for good. After all, it’s the name of my mother (still) and sister, two women I deeply love and admire. And I’ve been no slouch as a Hanson, either. I like the 35-year-old woman I’ve become, and each moment that got me here was with that name.

We celebrated the birth of our nation this past Tuesday as many Americans did, with meat cooked on a grill. Although, to be fair, we had some veggie burgers, too. And potato salad, pasta salad, cole slaw, guacamole, watermelon, beer, cake and illegal fireworks.

Looking around, I felt rather proud of the America we represented. Among us were members of the press and members of city government. Small business owners and entrepreneurs. Artists and teachers. Many different definitions of “family”, and a wide variety of flip flops. Plus, not a single one of us managed to harm ourselves with a sparkler.

At one point we lit a Duraflame in the fire pit outside, and two of our youngest guests were helping me blow on it to get the flames going. Of course, they had no sense of when it was time to STOP blowing on the log. Because when you are four years old, forcing air out of your mouth towards a flame means one thing: birthday cake!

Pam, who is a mom and therefore endowed with the gift of quickly responding to innocent why? and what? questions with a clever answer, asked them to back off a bit - since their enthusiastic blowing was now including a fair amount of spit.

“It’s not a birthday cake, girls. It’s a log.”

“Is it a birthday log?”

“No, just a log. For the fire.”

“It’s a birthday log!”

“Okay. Yes, that’s right. A birthday log for America.”

I know I’m a little late on this, but I’ve been trying to figure out a way to honor Aaron Spelling here at EGW. As you know, he passed away last week at the age of 83.

I watched and adored both Melrose Place and Beverly Hills 90210 in their time - and like so many others my age, the wardrobes and exploits of Brenda Walsh, Donna Martin, Amanda Woodward and Michael Mancini will be taking up precious space in my memory forever. But there is one Aaron Spelling show that I truly loved, one that I looked forward to with breathless anticipation every week, one that captured my devotion and admiration like no other: The Love Boat.

My parents called it ‘The Dumb Boat’ (clever, Mom and Dad), and would not let my sister and I watch the show without first giving us a lecture about it’s complete lack of merit, insulting portrayal of women, and potentially harmful effect on our brain cells. But their attempts to use Spelling as a Teaching Moment and impart some media literacy did not deter us! We soaked up every vapid, campy moment that we could, and prayed the parents would forget about us upstairs long enough so that we could catch most of Fantasy Island, as well (it was on next). At the first notes of The Love Boat theme song we’d start singing along, hoping for at least one young, pretty woman to appear among the guest stars popping up inside the life saver.

We also practiced the Julie McCoy wink over and over and over.

I could go on and on here, but the point is this: I have finally found a fitting tribute to Spelling’s most genius hour. Thanks to Wikipedia, here is a comprehensive list of The Love Boat guest stars over the years. RIP Aaron.

P.S. Julie McCoy is back in the form of Angela Carone, who has become an accomplished cruise director when it comes to gathering and entertaining our cocktail clatch every other week. Now if only she’d bring the wink into her repetoire…

Finally, a Supreme Court decision I feel happy about! They ruled against the Bush administration’s plan to put Guantánamo detainees on trial before military commissions, ruling that the commissions were unauthorized by federal statute and violated international law.

From the New York Times:

The ruling marked the most significant setback yet for the administration’s broad expansions of presidential power.

This is good, people.