It’s made me jaded.

I’ve been trying to figure out why the Republican candidates make me so angry. Why I feel like they are so small minded. Why I think they are bigoted.

Then I realized I’ve lived in the Bay Area for almost a decade. Well, it would have been a decade if I hadn’t taken that two-year sabbatical back to Connecticut. I thought I could move back to New England after two years in Cali, but I was wrong. I can never go home.

I loved Connecticut when I was there. And upstate NY, and the suburbs of Boston, and the eighteen years I grew up in Maine. But the places I lived all suffered the same problem. Homogeneity.

No, not Homosexuality. Homogeneity. They were all white Christians of European descent. The only diversity that existed was imported. And now being a female in a male dominated field, I’m beginning to understand that as much as the minorities tried to fit in, they always felt different. Alone.

But here in the Bay Area, I live in the land of diversity. Just tonight, I was hanging out with friends who are white, black, Asian, and Indian; Catholic, Hindu, Jewish, and atheist; straight, gay, and bi; carnivores, vegetarians and vegans. I work with Christians, Mormons, Jews, Muslims, Atheists, Agnostics, and even a Christian Scientist. My friends are from far away lands all over the world. They have stories that differ in how they arrived in the United States. Some came as students, others as workers, and some came as refugees when they fled their country by boat in the dark of night. But they are all here for the same reason: to make a better life for themselves and their families. Just like my forefathers.

Religious freedom is the principle on which our country was founded. The right for anyone to practice any religion of their choosing. But I watch the Republican debates and it is all about Christianity. And forcing their religious morals and values on others. Government sanctioned homogeneity.

So I wondered what percentage of the country is actually Christian. It must be a large part, since that is where the Republican party is focusing. As a guess, within my group of friends in the Bay Area, I would estimate that five percent of them are practicing Christian. A majority were raised Christian but are no longer practicing, and the rest were raised in another religion. I was curious, so I researched some statistics.

The country statistics all came from the government census data. The California statistics are from Wikipedia. In the country, approximately 76% consider themselves Christian, whether or not they practice, versus 69% in California. In the country, almost 19% are another religion or don’t practice any religion, where in California, that number is almost 30%.

This made me wonder what the overall trend has been throughout the last few decades. I used the census data to compare the country’s statistics. From 1990 to 2008, Christianity has dropped over 10% points, while all other religions/non-religions have gained over 10% points.

The curve isn’t drastic. Not as much as I’d expected. Not as steep as I feel it is among my group of peers. Just to see more stats, I also broke up Other and None into two separate categories.

The Republican party will probably look at this chart as the demise of American morals. I look at it as a beautiful mixture of cultures, religions, races, and sexualities. I see colors of all shades. I see conversations of many viewpoints; no one trying to convince anyone that they are right—like when my priest made us repeat how Catholicism is the “One, right, true religion”—but rather people learning about their differences and embracing them. I see love in many forms. I see diversity.

And then I remember that the rest of the country is homogenous. I’ve found that in other cities and small towns, even when there is a mix of people, they seem to segregate themselves. It is more comfortable to live near others who share your beliefs. It isn’t like here where everyone lives together. Below me is a guy of Asian decent. Beside me an Indian couple. Below them is a Hispanic guy and next to them are another Indian couple and an elderly Eastern European couple. On the end of the building is one white guy who looks like he was in the military and another who looks like he sells drugs. Diversity is all around me every day.

I look at the Republican candidates and am puzzled why all they talk about are Christian values and Christian morals. Why are they ignoring the other twenty percent of us who don’t really want our president to be our spiritual leaders, but instead want the president and the government to provide services, security, and economic stability.

I want a leader who understands global economies, respects other’s religions, and embraces the differences of other cultures—not someone who wants us all to be like him.

I want a leader who encourages us all to lead, not one who wants us all to follow.

I have been on the pill for eighteen years. But it isn’t why you think.

Yes, originally it was to prevent pregnancy. Yes, I had sex outside of marriage. It happened. I’m not ashamed. But it isn’t the reason I’ve been using the pill this whole time.

One warm, summer morning in Connecticut, I was feeling perfectly fine, except for the dread that I was going to be in a lot of pain in a few hours after surgery. Twelve years later, I still have a five-inch scar, and a lot of money spent on birth control to remind me.

Since age seventeen, every other month for a day, I’d be in excruciating pain. The first time it happened was my chemistry midterm. I wrote my name on my paper, I tried to read the question through the searing sensation in my abdomen, but I couldn’t. I was a shy, quiet kid, not one who would ever disrupt a classroom. That day I stood up without saying a word and walked out the door, letting it slam as I hobbled to the bathroom.

A while later, I managed to get to the nurse’s office. I’m forever grateful for my mother picking me up. She stopped by the chemistry class and picked up my calculator and books. And she took me home to comfort me, while I felt shame for having disrupted the test, and embarrassment that I’d have to retake it at another time. But teenage girls and their cramps will happen. At least that is what I thought it was.

For the next eight years, every other month, I would writhe in pain for a day. My cats would stare at me, wondering who would feed them when I was dead. And I would curl up in a ball hoping to pass out and praying that the cats wouldn’t start feeding on me while I slept.

Two months is a long time. By the time it happened again, I’d forgotten about the last time. It went undiagnosed by my college OBGYN who gave me an exam and filled my first prescription for the pill.

Five years later, I had an exam. The doctor asked if I was pregnant. I told her I was certain that I was not. Then she said, “You did say that you have male partners, right?”

My doctor just questioned if I am a lesbian. Could this get any worse?

Yes it can. She made me take a test I hadn’t studied for. It was negative for pregnancy. So I had an ultrasound a couple days later. The results came in. I had a ten-centimeter cyst encasing an ovary.

The morning of surgery, I signed papers that I was an organ donor and asked that they not take anything I needed or was still using. They made me sign papers that said if they found the cyst to be cancerous, they could take out whatever they wanted. It was a lot to ask of a twenty-five year old.

The doctor removed the cyst and an ovary. There was no cancer. I was thankful for that. And I was grateful that my mother quit her temp job to care for me the first week. Meine Schwester moved in the next. I couldn’t have done it without them.

So what does this have to do with the pill and Obamacare? Well, it turns out that one of the best treatments for preventing ovarian cysts is the pill. So regardless of my need to use the pill for contraception, the real reason I use it, even when I don’t seemingly need it, is because it keeps me from doubling over in pain for a day every other month. Or possibly dying.

I’ve had to pay hundreds of dollars a year for a drug to prevent ovarian cysts that the Catholic Church and other religious organizations don’t want to provide to anyone.

I’m grateful that I’ve had doctors and hospitals willing to prescribe it to me. I know I am in the minority of women using the pill, but I’m grateful to the Obama administration that other women will be able to access the drugs they need and that it won’t cost them what it has cost me.

I know this dream started before Perl woke me to go out at 0300. I hoped it would end there. Instead, I fell right back into it until 0730.

I was being chased. Very scary guys with large guns. And they were killing off the people trying to hide me and my two little girls. I kept moving around the town, giving them the slip, but not without them taking out a new acquaintance here and there. The worst place to hide was this circular glass home. It was beautiful and open inside, done in dark woods and dark brown leather. The Harrison Ford-type guy who lived there was armed to the hilt. But there was no where to hide in a glass house.

We ended up at a toy factory of some sort. I thought I was safe in the crowd. But they even had people there working for them. An Asian girl in a candy-striper uniform came after me with a knife. I knew her name was Mary and I killed her and dropped her into a tractor trailer-sized open-top box sliding by on a gigantic conveyor belt. I knew I was going to make the guys following me very angry when they found her.

I was hiding with my kids in another house when the killers sent a very large, black woman and her three ADD kids to the house. I don’t know why I let them in, but the kids started running around everywhere and I realized in all the confusion, they were stealing things. I also remember the less-subconscious part of my brain thinking this whole thing was kind of racist and promoting stereotypes. I’ll try harder next time.

I finally got them all out of the house. That is when an Angelina Jolie-looking woman and her spoiled-brat, 10-year-old son arrived. The son shows me the part in the JK Rowling book that he is reading that mentions another rare book. He wants this other book. He will have this other book. He says he will call off the hounds if I just hand it over. He also is upset that my girls might have colored in it with crayons. Seems I’d bought it at a garage sale for my kids a few days earlier. I know my daughters were reading it, but we’ve been on the run for so long, they could have left it anywhere.

So now I’m looking for the book too. And trying to figure out how I can convince the goons not to kill me and my family after I hand it over. We are in my Great Grandmother’s house and I’m trying to find other precious items I could trade. But I just get the book. It is where my daughters said they left it.

I meet the Max Martini-looking goon in an outdoor market. I give him the book and he hands it over to the kid who walks away in disgust. The kid doesn’t say to kill me anyways and it turns out, the goon is pretty cute and really liked chasing me. I gave him the best run for his money he’s ever had. He wants to take me to dinner. I would like that. He’s buying a new fedora to replace the one I destroyed. He’s trying on a new leather jacket and wants to know my opinion of it. I’m really considering going to dinner with him.

Then I remember Mary. He isn’t going to forgive me for her. He’s going to be looking for revenge. I excuse myself and go back to find my daughters. We disappear into the crowd and start to run again like the white rabbit that I am.

Mitsy recently received a new bed. She loves it. She sleeps in it all the time. She can’t jump on the couch or the bed, so she sleeps here. She has hyperthyroidism. And now allergies. And a big growth next to her eye that might be causing the allergies. I changed her food for the hyperthyroidism, but then I had to worry about her eating the dog food. It was stressful.

Pablo is happiest sleeping next to me on the couch. He has severe arthritis. He is taking cosamine. Either the food or the cosamine has been causing severe coughing.

The dog has had a terrible bout of diarrhea this week. Tests show it isn’t a bacterial infection. I’ve been cooking chicken, rice, and veggies for her. She is on Atopica for her severe allergies. She hated eating the Iams I’ve been feeding her, but jumps around when I make her food. But I can’t keep that up. I don’t know the right ingredients or the right nutritional value.

Princess K told me about For Other Living Things. The staff was extremely helpful, and they have a variety of healthy options!

Since I was on my bicycle, I decided to try out a dried food for my cats and dogs, so I went with The Honest Kitchen. I’m trying Force for the dog, and Prowl for the cats. It is a raw, dehydrated food that I’ll reconstitute with water. The question is whether the pets will like it.

But to make up for feeding the dog a near liquid diet, I picked up a moose antler for her. She looooooooves it. She wouldn’t even let me take a photo of her with it.

Since I’ve already been buying expensive foods at the vets and the allergies were all getting worse, I’m going to see what a raw diet will do to solve the problems. I haven’t given the dog her allergy pill in two days and she isn’t spending any time chewing or scratching.

I hope that this works!

Fuckin’ Hipster and I drove back into the city. We split and I had lunch with an old friend from college whom I haven’t seem since the last time I was in Chicago—for his wedding. It seems that I only visit Chicago for weddings.

We had a spectacular lunch at South Water Kitchen. Then I took a tour of his offices. He is doing quite well for himself. It makes me wonder when I will grow up and become an adult.

Then I checked into my hotel. I’m in the other tower this time, with a view of the lake. I keep thinking it is an ocean out there.

I spent the rest of the afternoon walking. I pretty much walked the loop. I went through the park and found the big metal drop. The architecture in Chicago is fabulous. And everywhere has seemed so clean and lovely. I never thought I’d like this city so much!

Now I’m off to find some dinner. I was invited to dinner, but I don’t actually know what time. I am still hoping they might call and tell me. Either way, I will find dinner somewhere!

I said, “[redacted swearing] “, and went to the register and explained I’d been drinking and am incapable of buying something (but am capable of writing a comprehensive blog post about the situation), so, do they sell gift certificates? Amused as they were, they helped me obtain a gift certificate. I’m hoping Cub Scout realizes that half of his gift is this story.

Across the street from Crate and Barrel was Ann Taylor. Not Ann Taylor Loft, but I’ll give it a try. No dresses. No dresses. Dress. Damn, price tag. Try it on anyways. Damn, it is awesome. Drunken shopping. Buy it!

I spilled the beans to the cashier. I said, with an Eyeore expression, It isn’t on sale, is it?

Fifty percent off!

I win!

Saving that much means I can stop at Swarovski. Not really, but don’t forget, I’ve been drinking. And even more than drinking, I’m looking for a good story. I’ll do almost anything for a story.

Even buy ridiculously priced crystals.

Time to find the restaurant that @puls suggested. Something about a goat. Not on this street. Maybe in the alley. Nope. Oh there it is! In the utilitarian part of the city down the stairs.

Billy Goat Tavern.

Not what I was expecting.

I couldn’t order dinner from the bar, but was welcome to bring it back. I’m a new vegetarian. Oh. Grilled Cheese. Sure. Chips. Sure. Plain or BBQ? Never mind. You are plain. Okay.

Beer. Miller, Miller Lite, Natty Light, Billy Goat Ale. Yes. Where is it made? Germany. Yes.

Next thing I knew, I had a bet going with the bartender, for my drinks, that the Celtics would beat the Heat. Implanted Massholes to Wisconsin were there to back me up. They loved that I had lived in Salem because I’d
followed a full moon there. They don’t know it, but they bought me a shot of Jameson.

Some kid came in and ordered a shot of gin. Then he tried to order a coke as a chaser. I told him no. I didn’t know he couldn’t, but I was right. He had to get the coke where I got my grilled cheese.

The waiter was rooting for the Celtics too. The kid ordered a vodka shot for him and his friend. The bartender and I had already discussed how they probably weren’t of age. So I asked if it was their 21st birthday. Sure enough, it was.

Surprise.

The Celtics lost. Only by a couple points. I was supposed to take the bartender to the wedding if I lost. He changed it to just a hug. Close enough.

I took my Swarovski crystals, and half-priced dress and headed back to my hotel.

Expensive cardboard pizza.

Okay

Good night!

I failed at finding a dress. Instead, I bought three jackets, three camisoles, two pairs of jeans, two pairs of shoes, and a turtleneck in a pear tree.

Luckily, I brought a dress with me. I think I can wear one of the new jackets with it.

I hate shopping—really, really hate shopping—so when I do it, I go all out. I’m not sure now how I’m supposed to fit it all into the carry-on bag I brought with me. I could wear it all on the plane but that would be ridiculous. My FMBs took up a lot of space in the bag, so I can wear those home. I purposely didn’t bring enough clothes for the week knowing that I wasn’t going to have enough room after shopping. Hrm. I did bring a pair of wool pants. Maybe those are more appropriate for a winter wedding in Chicago than a dress.

After shopping, I went back to my hotel and played fashion show. Realizing I hadn’t eaten lunch, I ate some celery I’d brought. Don’t feel bad for me. I had two more pieces of the pizza from last night for breakfast. Skipping lunch wasn’t a big deal. I felt bad for tossing the last two pieces. I wish I’d run into the homeless guys after dinner last night. I would have given them all my leftovers.

I put on the comfortable pair of new shoes, a cami and a jacket, then covered them with my big, grey, wool coat; lavender scarf; and wool cap; and headed back out into the cold and wind.

I love the architecture in Chicago. It is amazing. Without all the shopping bags, I could walk around and see the amazing buildings. Funny how shopping bags get in the way of that!

I didn’t take any photos. The sky was grey and the photos would look as depressing as it is, so I prefer to remember it in my mind as beautiful and intricate. To me, Chicago is Boston without the cow paths and with lessons learned.

The weird thing I saw on Michigan Ave was that there are two levels to the city. The ritzy shopping area that took all my money is on the second floor. When I was actually watching where I was walking, I realized there was a service level first floor. Odd, but at the same time, extremely utilitarian. I do like me some utility.

I checked out the old water tower. They had photos of before and now. I stopped at the visitor center to figure out what I was missing. Then I spent a half an hour at the John Hancock building on my iPhone trying to see if there was a way to buy drinks instead of paying to see the observatory. Better value for the price.

There is a lounge. 96th floor.

I started with the Rush Street: Bailey’s Irish Cream, Frangelico, Amaretto DiSaronno, cream.

I watched the sunset. Sort of. I really would have watched it except I am at the bar where it is mostly couples and single people. There were two guys. I don’t know if they were a couple or on a bro date. Either way, the sunset was over the shoulder of one of them. I kind of wanted him to buy me a drink, but I wasn’t going to take him home.

Commence blogging.

The smell is intoxicating. Spices. I have to have it.

The bartender had never given me a menu. I was ignored for a while, cleavage and all. So I looked up the drink menu on the internets. When he did pay attention, I was ready. It was a tough call between two of the drinks. This time I ordered the one that was spicy. The Seasonal Hot Spiced Pear Cider: Cruzan Spiced Rum, Butterscotch Schnapps, Hot Spiced Pear Cider.

I was on the phone with Meine Schwester. This isn’t the place to pick up single men. The bartender was much nicer this time. Maybe I smiled more. He asked later if I liked it. I told him that I’d been smelling it and couldn’t resist. He showed that it was brewed in front of me. I want to do a study about the number of people in this seat that order it.

I am paying the check. The bartender wanted to know which drink I liked better. I told the bartender how he had ignored me. When the check came, I think there was only one drink on it. I tipped him for two.

It is only quarter past five. I have more planned. I have to stop kidding myself about going to a city to see the sights. I eat and drink and walk my way around.

Tying to decide if I stop at the wine bar on my way to dinner.

It’s still early…

…but I’m afraid of the elevator.

But then my flight was delayed and my plans flew out the window. I found myself seated at the bar at Vino Volo. A glass of 2009 Outcast Pinot Noir was set in front of me. The penne and cheese magically arrived from the adjacent Napa Farms. A fitting start to my vacation.