Humble Sandwich

I measure my success by the number of nice cheeses I have in my fridge.

[humblesandwich]

I want to start off by acknowledging how fortunate I am. On top of being in a good place financially, I also have top notch insurance.

But I’d like to tell you a story about how that doesn’t make one shit of a difference in today’s America.

I have a chronic illness (rheumatoid arthritis), and coupled with the asthma I’ve had since childhood, this pair makes getting a cold or the flu a combination of pretty fucking terrible and terrifying. There are times when I’m sick that I worry at any given moment I suddenly won’t be able to breathe. Everywhere I’ve ever lived, the first thing I do is map out hospitals that take my insurance in case I have to rush there for emergency breathing treatments. Sometimes I wake up at 3am with a heavy, congested chest and wonder if I need to wake up my boyfriend to drive me to the emergency room.

Because of these issues, I applied for a nebulizer from my insurance company. A nebulizer is a heavy-duty air compressing unit for asthmatics that delivers an intense dose of medication. From the age of 7 to 24, I used one of these units. I used it so much that I wore out the motor. Getting this nebulizer cut my emergency room visits in half. It was a godsend for my family.

When I was diagnosed with RA, I applied for another unit. I was getting sick all the time due to my compromised immune system, and I wanted to have a nebulizer on hand in case an issue with my asthma arose. Since the age of 28, I’ve applied for a nebulizer 4 times. I have not once been able to get it approved.

Last year, I tried one more time. Why not?! I had brand new insurance! And happily, I managed to get the medicine that goes inside the nebulizer approved! A box of 150 doses of albuterol shipped to my house the same day I got a notice that the nebulizer had NOT been approved.

What. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck.

Why? I have a history of asthma. I have autoimmune. I have 150 vials of albuterol sitting on my front fucking porch! Why?!

The explanation I received was that it wasn’t deemed critical because I could receive a nebulizer treatment at a nearby EMERGENCY ROOM. An emergency room nebulizer treatment would cost me upwards of $300; an at-home nebulizer treatment would cost me 10¢.

Today, I’m sitting here with in the midst of a terrible flu, having finally broken through a 100° fever, and I found myself wondering if I should go to the emergency room for a nebulizer treatment because I’m having trouble breathing. And then, in a desperate daze, I find myself cleaning out my old essential oil diffuser and filling it with liquid albuterol doses and saline solution and sitting in the mist it’s spewing out while I do deep meditation breaths and try to inhale this weird patch of medication provided by a discount Amazon product because the insurance I PAY FOR won’t approve a life-saving machine I need.

This is part of why I care about socialized medicine more than anything else. The number one cause of bankruptcy in America is a bad medical diagnosis. But like I said, I’m fortunate. Unfortunately diagnosed, but fortunate. In a state of frustration and anger, I spent the rest of evening searching for a nebulizer, which I just paid for out of pocket - no problem. But that’s me.

But sure, tell me more about how we need tax cuts for the rich.

[humblesandwich]

At the end of the day, my dad used to discard the change in his pockets into an old cigar box on his dresser. And each morning, I would dig 35¢ out of the same box, grabbing enough small coins to make a single pay-phone call to my mom, to come pick me up from school. One morning, I went to grab the usual 35¢ and noticed a small book had fallen into the area between the wall and the dresser. Curious, I dug the little volume out - and being a teenager who favored reading and theater over sunlight and sports, it took a few minutes to dislodge the book. When I finally had the paperback in my hands, I noticed the title was “How to Be Your Daughter’s Daddy.” I quickly skimmed through the book. The pages had bold font with single, list-like features and a box-to-be-checked next to each item. They said things like, “Take your daughter to her favorite restaurant. Make the reservation under her name, and when you arrive, pull out her chair before you sit,” or “Rake a pile of leaves in your yard. Let her jump in them,” or “Take her fishing.” 

I saw a few pages already had checkmarks with dates - and I realized that my dad had been going through the book since 1985, and marking the things he’d already done with me. I saw, “Take her dancing,” was checked off, and remembered the church dance my dad took me and my sister to, where he bought us corsages and Mommy did our hair. I saw, “Share your favorite thing with her,” and remembered the time my dad woke me up in the middle of the night to watch a meteor shower in our back yard, and showed me the surface of the moon through his treasured telescope. It was a lot to take in in the 15 minutes before rushing off to school, and I definitely cried on my way to 1st Period. But what really stuck with me was that my dad loved me so much, that he worked extra hard to make a million beautiful memories just for me. 

And Daddy, I’ve never forgotten.

[humblesandwich]

I require something more tangible than a grudge.

I have an uncanny talent for remembering miraculously far back into my own life with incredible clarity. My earliest memory is of the yellow lining inside my crib. Another is of my second birthday party, where I wore a light blue dress for the approximate length of one photo....before I tore it off and spent the rest of the event naked. 

Man, I knew how to party back then.

One of my favorite, and probably most shameful, memories is from Kindergarten. Let me preface this story by saying I was a real Goody Two Shoes. I followed the rules, I shared, I never picked fights, I always came in from recess on time, I talked about Jesus a lot. Like, a lot.

BUT.

There was this girl named Brittany in my class and she represented my very first encounter with a bully. Like some kind of villain from a Lemony Snicket novel, she wore the same shade of pink every single day. Even in Kindergarten, she already had a really good grasp on her Regina George persona. 

As a good kid, I wasn’t really familiar with enemies or bullies. Because up until this point, I’d never had any. All I really understood was that this Brittany was making my day to day life miserable. She made fun of my hair. She kicked mud on my shoes. She would pretend the snack I brought to class smelled bad. I did not know this word at the time, but I'd have described her as a fucking douchenozzle.

Now, my parents were big proponents of the "kill them with kindness" method, and I took that very much to heart. So whenever Brittany reminded me that I had a boy's name or that she thought my Show & Tell was stupid, I’d laugh and let her cut in front of me in line for the swings.

That had the ultimate effect of just making her MEANER.

Plus, at some point, I think Brittany understood she wasn't getting to me (she was, but on the outside your girl was cool as a cucumber), and that just fueled her fucking fire. So one day, she went for the jugular. And if you know me, then you know the jugular is my family.

"I saw your mom drop you off at school today," she said.

"My mom drops me off every day," I agreed.

"Well, your mom is ugly. And I bet your dad is too."

Those words just hung in the air between us and I remember feeling really sick. All the color must've drained from my face because this poisonous smile slowly spread across her face like a puddle of oil.

No one had EVER said anything mean about my parents before. It felt foreign. It felt wrong. And I knew instinctively that it was unfair territory. I mean, it was one thing to say something mean about me - I could defend myself if I wanted to - but my mom? My dad? They weren’t even THERE. How were they supposed to stand up for themselves?

The thing about this memory is that after Brittany verbally attacked my parents, there’s a momentary blankness. I don’t know how I managed to get next to Brittany, I don’t know at what point I grabbed the front of her dress - but the memory picks up with my tiny hands on her pink collar, flinging her into the mud under the monkey bars. And then, I held her down. 

I held her down until her ruffled pink dress was drenched in playground sludge. And while Brittany screamed and cried and drew our class and teacher to one side of the playground, I slipped back into our classroom, went to Brittany's personal cubby, located her Show & Tell piece - an iridescent Dance Magic Barbie dress - and shoved it down the neck of my sweater.

AND THEN I WAS SENT HOME FROM SCHOOL FOR BULLYING BRITTANY. 

It was a cruel twist of fate. My mom had to leave work to collect me from the main office, where I was being held. Through tears, I told my mom what had transpired. I told her how Brittany had been torturing me all year. I told her that I’d finally broken when she had said my parents were ugly. And through big, ugly, messy tears I confessed all about the mud and the stolen Barbie dress because I “wanted to hurt Brittany like she hurt me.”

And I waited for the hammer of justice to fall. 

The hammer of justice ended up being my mom buying me ice cream at Rite-Aid.

So, I guess the moral of this story is something along the lines of don’t fuck with my family or don’t be a bully....???? I don’t know. I don’t care. Mostly I just wanted to say, hey Brittany, if you’re out there, your Barbie dress still looks great.

[humblesandwich]

Chips with a side of gentrification.

I love Trader Joe’s, don’t get me wrong. And right now I live next-door to one, which certainly makes day-to-day planning a big convenience. But my family didn’t shop there much growing up - it didn’t carry bags of rice large enough or offer discount gotta-go frozen meats or stock industrial jugs of Kikkoman; and honestly we thought of it as “fancy” (in fact, we thought of a trip there as a special treat and one time my sister was asked what her favorite restaurant was and she responded “Trader Joe’s”). 

Times have changed, obviously. As Trader Joe’s has expanded, the prices have gotten more reasonable and they’ve started including more cultural foods to reflect changing palates and demographics - though their shoyu sucks (and comes in some tiny ass bottle....like is it for dollhouses????) - which seems nice and inclusive in a lot of ways. But I have to admit I definitely paused when I saw generically boxed Mochi Cake Mix, something I grew up calling Butter Mochi that was made by my mom from scratch, being sold to the exact kind of people who looked at me like I was eating a greasy slab of rubber when I was a kid. And I felt that same feeling creep up again when I saw the Chili Lime Flavored Rolled Corn Chips....which are just basically Takis Fuego but packaged to be more approachable to white people, I’m guessing. 

So. I’m just gonna go ahead and share the “original” version of some of these TJ’s products because I think it’s just as good to support the companies or the groups that have been making and enjoying this stuff for years, as it is your favorite grocery chain.

Mochi Cake Mix < Hawaii’s Best Hawaiian Butter Mochi Mix

While Butter Mochi requires only mochiko, eggs, butter, sugar, and milk - you can always opt for the mix from Hawaii’s Best which has been pumping out variations on the ono treat (and other local desserts like kulolo and haupia) for years. Not to mention, it’s a Hawaii based company that employs local Hawaiians during a time of financial decline for native Hawaiians in their own homeland. You can buy it from Hawaii’s Best directly, but it’s also available on Amazon or, even better, on Snack Hawaii (another family owned and operated company that has been selling local goods out of Hilo for 25 years). And - shameless plug - I’ve been buying from Snack Hawaii for a long time, so if you need a discount link, HMU.

Chili & Lime Flavored Rolled Corn Tortilla Chips < Takis Fuego

The company that makes Takis was founded in 1978 and has been pumping these guys out in different flavors since then. And while Trader’s only offers one flavor, the Takis from your local convenience store come in Fuego, Guacamole, Fajita, and Nitro. The company was founded in Lerma Municipality, Mexico, but has since moved to the US. And for me, this is less of a “support your local company” plea (because Barcel is a big corporation) but more of a “support your local culture” plea. Takis is one of those foods that has existed for a long time in specific cultural circles and so, gets looked down on as a marker of being poor or lower class. Which is utter bullshit and which makes the TJ’s version feel like gentrification in snack form. So instead of buying the “safe” version, maybe instead broaden your horizons and support your local Northgate Marketplace, and grab some homemade tamales or visit the panaderia while you’re there? Also, hot tip, Takis cost $1 while the Trader’s version will set you back $3.99. 

P.S. If you’re going to say “but Takis have MSG,” please allow me to educate you on how the fear of MSG is a racist and xenophobic myth. 

Amba Fermented Mango Sauce < Galil Pickled Mango

So this one specifically depends on if you’re looking for Indian, Israeli, or Middle Eastern Amba and Trader Joe’s doesn’t really specify which one they’re aiming for here. But Galil has been selling their Amba since 1985 and has been family-owned and run since then. Their Amba is also Kosher, and you can buy it on Amazon as well as this awesome site called Super Kacher that specializes in Middle Eastern and Israeli specialty food. If you want a more Indian Amba, try Ship Brand, which has been made by Poonjiaji’s Spices in Mumbai since 1883. The bottle looks crazy generic and if you live in LA, can be easily spotted at Bharat Bazaar at Samosa House, or again - available on Amazon! 

All this to say, don’t knock the originals because you have to go to H Mart or Tehran Market to get them. Maybe you haven’t been to those places before or maybe you just don't have time to hit two markets (in which case, I have provided you with links for online shopping) - but give the cultures that have provided fodder for your favorite chain a fighting chance to prove why they were good enough to be appropriated in the first place.

[humblesandwich]

And the Lord will raise him up (so I don’t have to).

After I’d had my gallbladder removed, some dude offered up the completely unsolicited and bonkers advice that I could heal myself with prayer. He volunteered that if I repented of my sinful ways - the results of which were my gallstones and the subsequent failure of my gallbladder - that I could regenerate my lost organ and become whole again. He said that God’s benevolent love would not only return to me my missing gallbladder, but would remedy the loss of the appendix that exploded when I was 18 and the cancer I was probably going to get from all the premarital sex I was reveling in. He then, without asking, put his hands on my stomach and proceeded to appeal to the Lord to cure me of my ailments, provided I lived a good life from that point forward and stopped leading others into the arms of the devil by my dark example.

I was reminded of this very real moment this morning, because I realized that this is exactly how it feels to talk to Republicans about healthcare.

.

.

.

P.S. My gallbladder did not grow back.

[humblesandwich]

Actual photo of Andrew Jackson in 1861, contemplating how he could've stopped the Civil War.

[humblesandwich]

This meme is my gift to Trump supporters who are boycotting Hawai’i and questioning its statehood.

[humblesandwich]

I don’t accept you.

One of the best days of my life was the day I told my dad I was atheist.

For background - I’ve always had very open, loving, and socially liberal parents, but I was raised under a conservative, Baptist banner. We attended church every Sunday. In 1997, my father moved all of us to South Dakota because he felt that God had called him to attend seminary. I went to Bible camp every summer from the ages of 10 through 17. When I was 15, a friend asked me to baptize her; and I did. On my first day of 1st Grade, I sat with my dad on the floor of my living room - both of us kneeling, our hands folded in prayer across the cushions of the loveseat - and accepted Jesus into my heart. This is to say, my unraveling from Christianity didn’t happen easily or without careful and educated consideration. It was a slow awakening - it took years of travel, attending other religious services, making friends outside my church group and listening to their thoughts, views, and stories, then allowing those views to challenge my own.

I asked a lot of questions, and at some point, I could no longer justify the answers I was getting.

One day after a particularly long debate with a friend about heaven, I thought, “Maybe this is it, and we have to be good, nice people here because this is our only shot.” And it was the first time, in a long time, that I felt some semblance of comfort. It all suddenly made sense, and I knew right then that I was atheist.

But it would be about 9 years before I ever said those words out loud.

Which brings me back to my best day.

I had stopped to fill up my car at a gas station. I only wanted to put $20 in the tank because it was all I had in the bank until Friday - so, I was obsessively staring at the pump. As I watched the gauge tick upward, a woman walked up to me and asked if she could talk with me about her religion. Usually I’m very open to discussing faith, but at this particular moment, I wasn’t really paying attention to her, I was watching the meter. Without thinking, I quickly rattled off, “No thank you, I’m atheist.” It was the first time I’d ever said it outside of my head. Anywhere. To anyone. I was so stunned, I forgot what I was doing until I heard the audible “pop” of the pump’s automatic shut-off. I’d filled up with $26.80 worth of gas. Fuck.

Even though I was probably overdrawn, I felt indescribably light. I’d said something true and honest, and the world around me just continued and no one died and that woman at the gas pump didn’t scream at me or try to claw my eyes out, she simply smiled and walked away. Everything was just fine.

I had to capitalize on this feeling. So, I called my dad.

When he answered, the first thing I blurted into the phone was, “Daddy, I’m an atheist.” There was a silence, and then, “Yeah, I kinda figured.”

“You KNEW?”

“Sure.”

“Are you mad?”

“No.”

“Really? Really? You accept that?”

Then my dad said something that I wish every single human could hear from the person they love the most: “No. I don’t accept that. Acceptance is my most basic requirement as a parent. It’s the easiest thing I could do as your dad. It requires nothing more from me than….adequacy. Acceptance is tolerating something, even when you don’t like it. You’re atheist? Okay. Whatever. You’re a wonderful person. You’re a wonderful daughter. I love you, and every day you give me a reason to love you more. I’m so proud of you. Of your bravery and your honesty. Accept you? No. I don’t accept you - I ADORE you."

Hearing that from my dad, even when deep down I probably knew that would be his answer, was such a satisfying relief.

That feeling is something I don’t want to take for granted.

What I’m trying to say is, if in this current social and political climate, you feel like there’s something about you that is different or weird or not “normal" and you think if you say it out loud the world is going to end, please know…

I don’t accept you - I ADORE you.

[humblesandwich]

Stay alive.

Yesterday was National Rheumatoid Arthritis Awareness Day. It's a bit of a pointless holiday, and I didn't even know it existed until about 3 hours ago - I'm guessing due to the fact that the Arthritis Foundation is shit, has a 1 star rating on Charity Navigator, and has been accused of misusing funds in the past. So....they probably haven’t had time to roll out an advertising campaign.

In any case, if you didn't know, RA is an autoimmune disease in which the body’s immune system is a worthless idiot and attacks your body's own soft and joint tissues, and can potentially render them useless through damage and deterioration.

I have RA. But I am lucky. My RA was diagnosed very early and I had it treated very aggressively.

I am also lucky because I have insurance that helps offset the cost of my revoltingly, ridiculously, disgustingly expensive medication. One month of Enbrel costs anywhere between $3,400 and $3,800. See?

It's such an expensive medication that I actually have to use two insurance plans to afford it. Which means, if I did not have insurance, I'd be paying approximately $45,000 per year simply to stay alive.

And that is for just one of my medications, as you can tell from the above photo, where I’ve blocked out all the other medications I am also required to take to stay alive. Paying for Enbrel out of pocket would leave me unable to afford rent, food, or clothing - other things which are also required to stay alive.

Though I am currently fortunate enough to have a job that provides me with healthcare, I've been without insurance in the past. Back before the Affordable Care Act, I was unable to stay on my parents’ plan when I graduated and then was constantly denied coverage due to my pre-existing conditions. I basically roamed around LA, terrified of getting into a catastrophic accident while simultaneously attempting to treat pneumonia in the back of a CVS.

Obamacare is not without its flaws, I acknowledge that. But if your garbage disposal is broken, you don’t burn down your house and start over - you fix the fucking garbage disposal. So in honor of National RA Awareness Day, which is, as we've established, a real thing - please consider writing or calling your representatives (especially Paul Ryan) and telling them that repealing ACA without a replacement would be disastrous. It is important, and saving lives, and making it so people don’t have to choose between bankruptcy or having their immune systems kill their own bodies.

.

Contact Your Representatives: http://www.house.gov/representatives/find/

Contact Your Senators: https://www.senate.gov/senators/contact/

Contact Paul Ryan: https://paulryan.house.gov/contact/

[humblesandwich]

Acquaintance: You were a lot funnier before you got so political.

Me: Oh gosh, really? I've been so worried about that. Can I run some joke ideas by you and you can let me know if they're too political?

Acquaintance: Really?

Me: No. I don't give a fuck what you think.

[humblesandwich]

I am so proud to be one small part of this enormous movement.

But let’s not forget - and this is a reminder for myself as much as it is information for others - this is the first step on a long journey. Run for office, local or national. Volunteer for organizations in your community, or donate if you have the means. Use your privilege, if you have it, to be an ally and stand with other movements that fight for equality, visibility, or access (Black Lives Matter, CAIR, ACLU, Planned Parenthood, Sacred Stone Camp). Know your reps and program their numbers into your phone. And more importantly, be excellent to each other.

If you marched (either physically or digitally), here’s a helpful guide provided by the Women’s March organizers for 10 Actions in the first 100 Days of the new administration.

[humblesandwich]

Wow, you're going to protest the inauguration by not watching it on TV or looking it up online??? Amazing. Truly you are the king of anarchy.

I’ll actually be having surgery while the inauguration takes place - so I’ll be under anesthesia. Which, yeah, I planned on purpose. But, I also subscribe to staying informed, so I will read about it the next day in the newspaper. And I’ll continue to watch his press conferences and stay informed on his doings AFTER the inauguration - because knowledge (and keeping your enemy close) is the only way to peacefully protest, resist, and protect yourself.

But truthfully, the inauguration has never really been about conveying new political information - it’s a pageant. And I don’t think I’ll learn anything I don’t already know about the people or party who supported him. So, I don’t really mind skipping a bit of pomp and circumstance, and then getting the download from the New York Times the next day. For me, the boycott is less about being anarchic royalty, and more about making sure a dangerous, misogynistic narcissist and sexual predator has lower inaugural ratings than Obama did. I was simply hoping to give others who desired to do the same some helpful information.

But what works for me doesn’t work for everyone. You do you.

Also, if anything, I’m a Queen.

[humblesandwich]

i just found your anti-seduction guide and i love it!! i really wish it had more notes because it's absolutely hilarious 😂

OMG thank you! I’m sorry if you wrote this a long time ago and I never answered. I got sick (both physically, and also of writing) and stopped posting for awhile. I’m back now (hopefully) and I really appreciate this note. I never put it to use myself, but I hope it helped you anti-seduce so many people, or smile. Either/or/both.

[humblesandwich]

How to REALLY Boycott the Inauguration

I'm seeing a ton of people posting this copy-and-paste update about boycotting the inauguration by SWITCHING YOUR TELEVISION TO A DIFFERENT CHANNEL. It's a nice thought and a nice gesture, but that WON'T WORK.

I'm not putting those things in all caps to yell at you, I just want to make sure you see it.

How TV Ratings Work: Viewership is measured through Nielsen ratings. Unless you're a "Nielsen family," you don't really count. Nielsen Family data is recorded through their Nielsen boxes, and then that data is gathered on a value curve to represent a larger audience.

Basically, no Nielsen box = no count.

Ratings are an estimate. It's super archaic. But so is cable. That's why viewer data is ALSO gathered through internet clicks and posts, interaction with online videos and social feeds, and streaming data.

How to REALLY Boycott the Inauguration: Avoid online content. Avoid clicking on videos, avoid linking articles and tweets, avoid social feeds, avoid recaps. Even hate-watching a video or posting a link to add the comment, "An oil spill in the Pacific Ocean is better for humanity than this administration," still counts toward viewer data. Your hate-click is still an added view, and it doesn't come with a little asterisk next to it that says, "But this person loathed it and weeps for the future."

So changing your channel is chill, and I recommend it! There is so much beautiful, amazing television! It's a Golden Age of scripted content! But for god's sake, don't then go and negate your boycott by opening your Facebook and putting angry faces on a bunch of Trump videos.

[humblesandwich]

BLESSED.

[humblesandwich]

When you tune in to Season 2 of your favorite webseries and find you’ve unexpectedly cosplayed the main character.

[humblesandwich]

Me: You should watch MOON, you'd like it.

Dad: What is it?

Me: A sci-fi movie about a man on a solo mining assignment on the moon.

Dad: Is he mining helium-3?

Me: Yes...but that's not really the important part.

Dad: WHY isn't that important? Helium-3 is sought for its use in nuclear fusion AND nuclear weapons research. One metric ton could potentially power a city the size of Boston for 2 years.

Me: Okay, but the movie is more about this hallucination he has, and...

Dad: Oh god - he doesn't lose the helium-3, does he?

Me: WHY DO YOU CARE SO MUCH ABOUT THE HELIUM-3?

Dad: It's very rare on Earth, AVERIE.