I like McCain better than Obama. There. I said it.

But I don’t like Palin. And Biden is a wet dish-rag of a personality, despite the flavor that his personal tragedy throws into the mix.

I am – truly – one of the famous “undecided”s. I could vote either way. 

By nature, I’m conservative. Hell, I was raised in a farm community in Indiana, and then in a wildly cantankerous community in New Hampshire. By their standards, I’m a raging liberal. 

And I like McCain’s brand of nonsense. Not all of it, but some of it. Also, I actually respect the man for going through 5 years of captivity – 2 of which were in solitary confinement. I don’t personally know a single, solitary soul on this planet who could endure even a month in confinement. Myself included. So, he might have been priviledged growing up and now, but I think he paid something of a price for that – don’t you?

I also think that I’m not a Republican in the 2008 Republican sense of the term.

But, I do think that if there were a new party called the New Republicans, and they really were fiscally conservative and asked state governments to take care of themselves, then I’d be happy to call myself a New Republican. 

Really, I want a Centrist Party. Something in the middle of both. Or a combination of both. 

Jesus H., I just realized that I have to move to England. What I really want in a multi-party system that actually gives a voice to minority factions (that actually manage to be elected to office, despite not being Conservative or Labor).

What’s hysterical is that I’m bound to be called Un-American for something I’ve said here, and accused of being a whiner, or something. I was actually labeled Un-American for saying I was sick of seeing Michael Phelps on the cover of everything (see earlier post).

My ultimate goal is to be called a commie b–tard.

Fascist, I’ve already collected. Several times. 

Though, to be fair, I’ll also need to add a socialist to my collection of epithets: Theresa the Cranky, Theresa the Crazy, Theresa the McCain-liker.

Well, at least I’m not crazy . . .

Today was my ultrasound.

I went to the Alta Bates medical center here in Berkeley. Their ultrasound and “imaging” department is – thankfully – separate from the main hospital. I haven’t been inside a hospital since I needed 40 stitches in my knee at the age of 14. I hope to keep my good record.

Standing in line to check in was the worst part of the entire experience. First, everyone in the room was obese and old. At least half had walkers and needed to be helped from place to place. It was like seeing an image of the future, being time-warped into a doctor’s office in Florida in 2038.

For anyone who hasn’t had an ultrasound, you should know that they force you to drink a lot of water and then not relieve yourself before the exam. They need a full bladder in order to see everything clearly. Great. I had to urinate so badly that I didn’t even have time to feel nervous about anything except accidentally peeing my pants while waiting. 

I flipped through an “Alameda” magazine.

I tried not to stare at the older ladies, and wonder if they were there for a bone density test or a cancer screening.

Then, my name was called and I marched down an oddly pleasing hallway, with arched ceiling and dramatic lighting. Inside the exam room, there were low lights – like the kind in the room when you get a massage at a nice day spa. I didn’t even have to undress.

As she spread the warm goo on my stomach, I said, “This isn’t exactly as fun as being pregnant.”

“No, it most certainly is not,” the woman replied.

She began clicking and clacking at her keyboard slash lighting board, flipping switches and moving the probe over my lower abdomen. Then, she checked my kidneys. When she told me that she did, in fact, see something, I felt both relieved and horrified. 

The good news was that I wasn’t having some sort of stress-related psychosomatic episode. In medical anthropology, we would call this “somatization”, or expressing psychological difficulties as physical symptoms.

The bad news was that there was something there.

I had to have an internal ultrasound to get a better look. It wasn’t that unpleasant, until she got near my left ovary. Then, ouch.

The absolute worst part was getting dressed and sitting down on the crackly white paper covering the exam table. Waiting. The lady performing my exam had to let the radiologist see my results, “just in case I need to keep you here for another test.”

I didn’t want to cry, but I felt like it. 

I’m writing a memoir about how every close family member died before I turned 24; each one had an early death under strange circumstances. I couldn’t help but think what a fitting end chapter it would make to announce my own bout with cancer – God forbid. I have a macabre sense of humor in these moments, and I’m almost positive that I’m not alone.

Thankfully, when the woman returned she said that the radiologist’s analysis was “hemorrhagic cyst”. Follow-up appointment in three weeks, to see if it’s taken care of itself. If not, then who knows. More tests?

At least it’s not (whispered voice) cancer. (Readers born after 1980, please watch St. Elmo’s Fire for reference.)

When you go in for an ultrasound. . .

but you are not pregnant, 

do they let you keep a picture anyway?

Let’s hope so. That would make a good post.

And now we wait. . . .

Today, I had an exam for abdominal pain I’ve been having of mysterious origin. Blood tests to screen for pregnancy and cancer and clamydia (nice combo, don’t you think?). Physical exam. And soon, an ultrasound. 

Today, I also sent my first three chapters to the literary agent. 

And now I am waiting for test results. 

Both could be good or bad. Positive or negative. 

Life has a funny way of balancing itself out, no?

I’m exhausted.

Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t had any coffee.

Or that I was up until 4am wondering what this pain in my lower abdomen is all about. 

Which got me thinking about what my life has been all about.

Maybe I’m underslept.

Maybe it’s because I’m eating less and forcing myself to go the gym more. All in an effort to fit into the jeans that I used to wear years ago in NYC. What do they represent for me? Youth? Potential? Why can’t I bear to throw them away – besides the fact that I spent $300 on them?

Maybe it’s the fact that I’m teaching 4 classes this semester – or 60 students. And spending all of my time reading along with them for the class and coming up with lesson plans.

Maybe it’s the fact that I’m also taking a Chinese politics class where we are reading – on average – about two books per week.

Or, then again, it could be the fact that I’m supposed to be worrying about how I’ll pay for my year in China doing research in 2009-10, and filling out grant applications. Some of which ask for 5 hard copies of the same damn application form.

I’m supposed to know what my project is all about and be able to describe it in 4000 words, 200 words, 2 double-spaced pages, and 10 words. 

Maybe I’m just stressed out because I’m technically supposed to be writing 2 field statements of about 40 pages each.

I’m also writing a memoir for a literary agent.

And working part-time for a lawyer to make ends meet.

Oh, and I’m getting married in December.

This is my life right now.

All I really want to be doing is writing the memoir and preparing for my wedding. I need a break. I need something to give before it’s me. I’m pretty sure that going over the pieces of my childhood needs its own space, preferably in a mountain cabin in Vermont, or a shack on the beach in Hawaii. Somewhere quiet where I can think and write without all these distractions.

I’m doing everything, don’t get me wrong. But I sort of feel like the Superwoman routine is getting old – fast. Isn’t that just supposed to be a comic strip? Superwoman is not, I can tell you, a good life choice.

How do successful people do it? I’m doing really, really well right now. I have nothing to complain about, and yet. My life is overscheduled, exhausting.

Tips? Suggestions?

I googled myself.

Haven’t you?

Who doesn’t?

This weekend, I read an article about a woman who googled her date before going on the date. Result? Disaster. She knew everything about him – including the fastest time he ever ran a mile and the fact that he attended the U of Chicago for an MBA.  So, during conversation, she kept forgetting what he had actually told her in person and what she had read about him online. Basically, she ended up drinking too much and making an ass out of herself.

Which got me thinking. 

What is actually available online about me? 

Thankfully, nothing horrible. 

Sure, you can see that I went to UNH for journalism and that I wrote a book. Terrific. Nobody ranting about how stupid I am, no nude photos, and no embarassing moments. Great.

And one cool fact: my NPR essay has literally gone global. I found a version of it in Portugese up on a Brazilian website. I found that several English teachers in China and Korea are having their students listen to my essay for listenting comprehension homework. There are all these ‘translations’ up on the web. Too cool.

I also discovered that my essay was on NPR’s “most emailed” and “most viewed” lists for the day and week it aired.

Plus, I simply found that my essay made a difference to people.  There are several websites – blogs and personal sites – that mentioned it or linked to it. It made me think that I should be writing more, and sending more out.

Maybe someday I won’t like the results of my google search, but tonight it made me feel good about myself.

I am a teacher. Officially. Who knew?

So, for the past three weeks now, I’ve been teaching 4 sections of Introduction to Medical Anthropology. At first, I was worried that I wouldn’t have time, that it would suck, that I wouldn’t know how to generate good discussions, etc. This is an upper division class, which means that instead of cutting my teeth on freshmen (now that’s an image for you!), I’m dealing with a bunch of juniors and seniors. These are not children, they are budding adults. And they are whip-smart. For anyone who doesn’t think there is a qualitative difference between a ranked top 25 school and the rest of us, think again. 

First off, these kids are serious about their studies. For the first time in my life, I’m dealing with people who do the recommended reading. Seriously. There was a Tambiah reading a couple of weeks ago that was only recommended, and several people emailed me to say it was ‘missing’ from their readers and online. Would I find them a copy? 

I’m having the students send me a question or reflection each week before section, to help me figure out what is interesting for them, or what is puzzling them. So far, I have been impressed with the results. Good questions that link ideas together. Thoughful responses that show how they are thinking through things critically.  Suddenly, I’m not quite as worried about our ‘future’ as I once was.

My job is both harder and easier because of the level of ’smarts’ I’m dealing with here. I have to engage them, but I also have to challenge them. So far, so good.

One of my students, a bright senior who sometimes looks dubious in lecture, lingered after class and told me that it was the first time that she had ever understood the need for a section. 

“Usually, this is just about a graduate student pretending to be a teacher,” she said. “But this is different. I just thought you should know.”

I almost cried. I’m serious. Tears.

Then, a freshman that is bold enough to take an upper division class at Berkeley came up to me. She’s feeling lost. She doesn’t get it. I tried to calm her down by telling her that she’s smart, that everyone feels stupid at a place like Berkeley, and that she should have some faith in her ability. She’s here for a reason.

And, the funny thing is, I believe it – both for her and for me. 

The other night, I got an email from a student who was still thinking about what we discussed that day in our section – while walking home from class, he had thought of a few additional things he wish he had said in class. He wrote me a page-length email about the various problems with the link between vaccines and autism in the readings I assigned, and anticipated our next author’s arguments. It was a brilliant email. 

I’m a teacher, yo. And I’m truly geeked out about it. This is the best and the hardest job on earth, and I love it. I’m in love with being a professor. Cynicism be damned – I believe in these 20-somethings.

How to tell the phonies from your real friends.

Not that I’m an expert, or anything, but I’ve had a lot of experience with this topic. 

Recently, a friend of mine was in the hospital for a week in Boston with meningitis. Her mom lovingly called the names in her cell phone, telling them that A. was in the hospital and could we call her to calm her down. Not only did I call right away and leave a message, I kept calling until I got her on the phone.

She seemed surprised that not everyone listed in her cell phone called her back. Not even close. It seemed that a lot of people simply avoided the situation entirely, or called to see if A’s absence would ruin her friend’s upcoming wedding (in which A was a bridesmaid). Um. Maybe not an appropriate way to look at someone getting a rare disease, but at least the woman called back, right?

When my mom died over twenty years ago, I was only 14. I expected that my friends would show up with chocolate or pizza and we would hang out. In short, I needed some things to seem normal in order to go about grieving my mother without losing my mind. My best friend, C, was at summer camp. She begged her mom to let her come back, but her mom refused. Everyone else – all of my so-called best friends – disappeared. 

I think I got one condolence card from one of my friend’s moms. That was it. No phone calls, no drop-bys to see how I was, no attendence at the funeral. It sucked. I realized that I was utterly alone and that no one apart from me really gave a damn about my mother’s death.

The truth is – they were all scared stupid of touching death by seeing me. They didn’t know what to say or do, so they just left me alone.

I never forgave them, and the majority of them have scattered out of my life like windblown leaves. 

Almost the same thing happened when my father died 10 years later.

When bad shit happens, you find out what your ‘friends’ are made of. Even something as little as a new job that takes you away from daily interaction with your ‘friend/coworkers’ can be an eye-opening experience if you don’t see it coming. The majority of people in our lives are acquaintences or people we know – not our friends. Friends are there through the years, through the laughter and tears, through the moves half-way around the world, through the death of a spouse, friend, lover, or dog. No matter how busy they are, they make time to call, email, send a note or an unexpected present. They do not forget that you exist because it is inconvienant. Nor do they fail to return your mother’s call when you are in the hospital with a raging headache and a fear that something worse is going to happen to you.

How did we get here? As a society?

Are we so market driven that friendship has become all about quantity instead of quality? 

Sometimes I’m amazed at how many ‘friends’ I have on Facebook. And how many ‘friends’ other people have. Really? Or is this like climbing the Mt. Everest of friendship and planting your flag, shouting, “I have more friends than you, which means I’m the better person.”

Sometimes I worry that I don’t have enough ‘friends’. Or that people don’t really like me, they are just nice to me.

Nevermind that half the people I think ‘hate’ me or don’t like me are people that I wouldn’t actually want to be friends with – it’s just that I want to make the decision not to be their friends. Not vice versa.

This is, of course, a lot like grade school. 

An acquaintence of mine recently put up a post about how the Obama/McCain showdown is really about promising people the most goodies. Exactly like running for president in high school when the kid who handed out the full-size Snickers bars won the election. It wasn’t about substance, it was about show. We have a tendency to like people who give us candy bars. And we dislike people who don’t.

Then again, no one who likes me for a grown-up version of a candy bar will come to the hospital when I am sick or call me after I have moved away. Those are my temporary acquaintences in life, and I won’t mourn them when they go away either.