Things that have happened in the interim – a 2-month recap

I went Home.

While normally I’m happy to babble endlessly about my home and my family, right now the thought of doing so just makes me homesick. I refer you to this post. Or this one.

I went to some weddings.  

Three, to be precise, three Saturdays in a row. Family, friend, friend. Notable moments: rafting down the river for my cousin’s ceremony, seven boats all lashed together while the vows were said over the water; bonding over mutual beer snobbery (and too many Jack-and-Coke’s) with my other cousin; discovering a high school bud is getting hitched next week and oh wouldn’t you like to attend?; seeing The Sis and another childhood best friend as bridesmaids.

I got really sick. Again.

Nasty head cold this time, layed me out for about a week. Unfortunately I had to fly back to DC before it had run its course, and all the subsequent pressure changes left me deaf in one ear for about two days. I actually warned my boss, “I’m not ignoring you, I just can’t hear anything you say.” It was freakin hilarious. In a "I think I might be dying" kind of way.

Btw, this dang cold is still hanging on. I’ve been sniffling for about three weeks now, and I had a relapse last week that turned into a sore throat. It also significantly impacted my ability to complain.

I discovered that my hometown has what’s dangerously close to a “nightlife.”

Since I’ve been gone, Brookie’s Cookies (yes you read that right) acquired a liquor license and a backyard patio, complete with a stage and a fire pit. Add in live music and drunk people with a tendency to stand too close to the flames, and you’ve got an instant hit.

We also have a new bar – one that could actually be considered DC-chic. No dirt floors or panties on the taps here! A DJ playing club music even attracted a small dancing crowd, and yes, I rocked my moves with the best of them.

Apparently I’ve got game?

This is news to me – I consider myself more of the ‘lovable dork’ variety, not the ‘sexy stranger’ you’d hit on in a bar. Case in point, I recently remarked that I must be a reincarnation of the awkward Liz Lemon from 30 Rock, and my friend listening quickly (too quickly?) agreed.

However, while at home I "picked up" a very handsome cowboy at a bar, and in the last week I’ve been 2/2 for exchanging numbers with other targets attractive gents. We’ll see where this goes, cuz I’m a bit suspicious of this new trend and don't quite know what to do with it, but I’ll keep you posted.

While we’re on the subject of my vanity…

I continue my search for a great DC hair stylist.  
I had a great stylist all through high school who understood my hair’s thickness and natural curl, and who always managed to cut flattering layers. However, factor in DC’s higher humidity and 4 extra inches of hair, and you get this: 

Yesterday a friend called me "Extra Hair."

My hairbrush recently snapped in two while I was brushing through my 80’s-style mess long tresses, so I’ve bumped this up on my list of priorities.*

Also, I should probably get signed up at a doctor’s office now that I have regular health insurance.

I continue to not know what to do with my life. 
I recently got a job, but that doesn’t mean that stressing about my future has ceased.  I still feel like I need a plan. Grad school? Foreign service? Waitress through Scotland? Move to LA? Choices, choices….

*I don’t know why you’d really care about this issue, because I hardly care. I just thought my hairbrush breaking was hilarious and I wanted to mention it.

Disturbing content HERE

Okay, yall. I'm gonna apologize for the disturbing content I'm about to post. Hhhhyeah. You'll be grossed out. These images are not for the meek.

My apartment has cockroaches.

To those of you who are rolling your eyes and muttering, Psh, well I've dealt with cockroaches for years, this is not blog-able content...Congratulations. You've dealt with cockroaches. You win an award. But this girl has NOT ever had to deal with them, and she's struggling a little with the adjustment.

I think Montana must be too cold or not humid enough or something, but honestly. I've never seen a cockroach before in my life. So when I was doing dishes and a brown, shiny, look-I-have-jointed-legs-and-an-exoskeleton bug-thing crawled up the disposal, I didn't react, ahem, well. Meaning, I yelped and dropped the plate back into the sink. Luckily, The Sis was with me at the time, so I pawned the bug-removal-situation off on her.

"Aw, it's just a lil Junebug!" she said, scooping him up in a bowl and depositing him in the grass outside.

I had my doubts about that, but I kept them to myself. Don't Junebugs have cute green and white stripes on them? And aren't they smaller? As in, NOT the size of my palm?

But hey, people every day choose to solve their problems by avoiding the very questions and details they should ask for--I joined that noble and classy crowd by choosing not to think too deeply whether that bug was an actual Junebug or not.

This incident faded from my mind. Until one night when I was sitting on my bed, minding my own business.

And something scuttled across the floor. Buried itself in a shadow by a stray sock. The sock wiggled.

I yelped again, and then froze. The "something" looked suspiciously similar to that "Junebug" from a few weeks ago...$%@! I thought. I'm the only one home. That means I have to deal with this.

Just to clarify. I can take care of myself -- I don't have a problem killings bugs or fixing faucets or grouting bath tile, or what have you. I DO have an issue with bugs that have exoskeletons. I dunno what it is, something about their shiny quality, the way they *crunch* when you kill them. They just seem so alien. So...evil. As if they are on a single-minded mission to destroy me.

When I was in middle school, my science class did an animal-dissection unit. We dissected giant worms, giant bullfrogs, aaaaand giant locusts from Africa. I had no problems with the former two -- I played with the frog lungs just like everyone else (you could actually make the lung inhale by forcing air into it with an eye dropper!) -- but I took one look at that locust and told my lab partner, "Josh, you're handling this one."

The "something" still sat camped out by my sock as all these pleasant childhood memories coursed through me. I pulled myself together. Armed with a cup and a plate, I trapped the invader and took him to the bathroom. "Let's see how you handle being flushed down the toilet," I told him smugly.

Turns out he handled it just fine. Since he refused to be flushed.

The backwash from the flush carried the little bastard back from the pipes, right back into the toilet bowl, where he proceeded to crawl calmly up the porcelain. Horrified, I pumped the flush handle repeatedly, but the water pressure wasn't recovered enough to do any more than sputter half-heartedly. The bug, whom I was certain was a cockroach at this point, had almost reached the rim. I grabbed at the toilet seat and slammed it down, hard, knocking the little cuss back into the water. Where he promptly crawled right back up the porcelain.

This process repeated itself until the water pressure recovered. It was a very lady-like situation, me cursing at the toilet while slamming the seat down over and over.

Eventually the water pressure recovered, and I sent that sucker down to the sewer to die. Done-zo. Gone. I was flushed with success (see what I did there?), but I had a new problem. Great, my apartment has cockroaches. 

I approached my landlords about the situation. Now, my landlords are WONDERFUL. But they wanted to be sure that these were cockroaches, and not "water bugs." Which apparently plague the area as well.

Allow me to illustrate.

THIS IS A WATER BUG

THIS IS A #%$^@*& COCKROACH

As you can see, class, the bug on the left has two pairs of legs and little horns. The exotic design on his back may be considered mildly interesting. The spawn on the right, however, has six legs and antennae. Notice a distinct LACK of horns. No design, other than a design to haunt my dreams forever.

The creatures I've killed have all had antennae. They are cockroaches.

Aaaaa I can't even look at these pictures anymore. Sorry to disturb you all with them. *Shudder* I can't believe I had to save them to my computer to write this post. I'm gonna go die now.

Editor's note: Aftan's apartment is regularly visited by The Orkin Man, aka The Bug Guy. A lapse in his visits allowed the spawn of cockroaches, but that has been remedied. Apartment = re-bug-proofed. Cockroaches = gone. (I hope...)

Trips to the ER are fun, right?

Since so many wonderful friends and family have expressed concern, and since I’m finally recovered enough to use real words again, I thought I’d just do a lil write-up of my condition, what happened, and where I’m at now.

Seriously though, guys, thank you so much for your thoughts and prayers. It really means a lot that so many were thinking of me.

It began as a sore throat.  Then it got really really RIDICULOUSLY painful. Having been an unusually frequent victim of strep throat as a child, I knew that this was no ordinary sore throat.  Friends and parents advised me to go to the doctor, but still I hesitated because, after all, strep throat comes with a raging fever.  And I was, thankfully, fever free. So it couldn’t be strep, right? A feverless strep throat couldn’t possibly exist, right?

Right, Aftan, you little fool. 

To be fair to myself, I did try to visit a doctor’s office. Unfortunately, no one would take me because I wasn’t an “existing client.” Now, I don’t want to turn this into a political rant, but you know the health care system is broken when doctors refuse to see extremely ill patients solely because the office has its administrative tighty-whitees in a twist.  What if I had cancer? Or an auto-immune disorder? You won’t take me because I’m not an existing client?  What, don’t have enough shelf-space for another folder? You require us to buy into expensive health insurance policy plans, and then you refuse to treat us anyway?? This is completely unacceptable.

Not only that, but such practices force us sickees to turn to the ER as a source of primary care. Trust me, that shouldn’t be their job! ER docs should be patching up bullet wounds and treating heart attacks, not diagnosing sore throats.  Clearly, something needs to change in our system. (Is Obamacare the way to change it? I’m not so sure…but we can go out for coffee and you can hear more of my political philosophies another time.)

My point is, I gradually realized that the ER had become my only recourse. Throat lozenges, hot tea, gargling with salt water, and a baggie full of Advil no longer cut it. I couldn’t control the drool slipping out of my mouth because it was much too painful to swallow. I couldn’t eat because even the mild Campbell’s chicken noodle soup somehow turned into liquid fire. I couldn’t sleep because of the pain.

Finally I got a good look at my throat, and literally took a step backward in shock. It looked like a Siberian tiger had tried to claw it’s way up my esophagus, leaving white striations to mark up the swollen redness. [Too much info? Sorry, guys, I’ll cool it.]

I think – I THINK – I have strep throat.

So I texted the Sis and asked her to take me to the ER.  I could have driven myself, but secretly I was hoping that they would dope me up so high on morphine that I wouldn’t be able to drive home. I mentally girded myself for a chaotic and bureaucratic night in the hospital. 

Actually, the ER was fairly straightforward. I waited for a while, yes, but not terribly long; I was in and out with a fistful of prescriptions within two hours, and the doctors were all very kind and answered my not always coherent questions.

[As a quick aside, to give the story some levity: one of the nurses came over at one point to take down some more information (or maybe just to talk to me, since I looked so miserable sitting on my stretcher in the corner and someone else had taken the same info a moment before)…this is how the conversation went from my point of view:

Nurse: Hi, I’m Mike and I’ll be your nurse. What’s your name?

Me: Hi Mike. Aftan.

Nurse: Pardon?

Me: Aftan. A-F-T-A-N. Yes, I know it’s unusual.

Nurse: Ummmm…

And this is how the conversation actually went:

Nurse: Hi, I’m Mike and I’ll be your nurse. What’s your complaint?

Me: Hi Mike. Aftan.

Nurse: Pardon?

Me: Aftan. A-F-T-A-N. Yes, I know it’s unusual.

Nurse: Ummmm…

No, “Aftan” is not some new disease. Just a name. A conclusion that we both eventually came to.]

No, the only real problem of the night came in actually finding the ER. The Georgetown hospital area is very confusingly laid out (at least it is at night to a poor lil sickee who’s never been there and has lost full use of her brain). Turns out we went to the waaaay wrong parking lot, and wandered around lost for a few minutes before discovering we needed to be there, not here.

We left the parking garage, sans parking stub because the little machine refused to spit one out for us when we drove in, and the guard told us that “that’ll be ten dollars, please.”

Please, we explained, we came to the wrong lot and have only been here ten minutes, we’re just looking for the Emergency Room.

“That’ll be ten dollars please.”

Really? You’re gonna charge $10 to the girl who’s begging for the Emergency Room? I was too sick and miserable to argue, so I wearily handed over my card and signed the damn slip. I’m keeping his pen, though, I thought to myself, nursing a small pocket of revenge. Customers steal my pens all the time at the liquor store and it drives me crazy.

The kicker, though? He wouldn’t raise the gate until I gave him the pen back. Since I had angrily stuffed it into my cavernous purse, several minutes elapsed before I could find it.  I would hope that he caught my germs, but I don’t wish this illness on anyone. Adult strep throat really bites. Or claws, as the case may be.

At the end of the night, I left the ER with my prescriptions, no morphine (shoot), and the Sis. A short summary of how I’m doing: I have strep throat (we’re pretty sure), I have powerful meds, and I have a couple days off to sleep and recover. Seriously, I just woke up from a three-hour nap, so hopefully that means I’m on the mend.

Again, thank you all for the well wishes. You rock.

Habitat for Humanity. DO IT.

Sometimes, I fall into a rut. I'm bored, I'm depressed, I feel unfulfilled in my job, I have no friends...lots of happy thoughts. Screw it, I'll think. I'm moving back to Montana to live with my parents. 

Because that will make me feel much more accomplished. Right.

Point is, sometimes I turn into a whiner. This happens to all of us at one point or another - life just gets us down. It could be because of one particular event, or several, or perhaps none at all. (Doncha just love when its the latter?)

Since we all know how fun it is to hang out with depressed, mopey whiners, I'm gonna share with you a secret cure that will boost your spirits and transform you back into a productive member of society: go volunteer.


Seriously, people. Give back to your community. When you're stuck inside your own head and can't see past your own problems (and if they're like my problems, they probably don't matter much in the grand scheme o' things), go help someone else out with their problems. Help hand food out at a homeless shelter. Donate an afternoon at a nursing home. Volunteer to baby-sit for a small-group (but only if you click with kids...that rules me out).

For me, I prefer to volunteer with manual labor. Enter Habitat for Humanity -- they help build homes all over the world, as well as right here in DC. Also turns out they have a handful of building sites only a short distance from where I live, which led to me donating my Saturday yesterday so I could climb on ladders with a caulking gun.

I would do it again in a heartbeat. And I will likely do it again at least one Saturday a month from now on.

I don't know about your families growing up, but in my family the weekends were work days. Mowing the lawn, landscaping, seeding/fertilizing/spraying for weeds in the pastures, building fences (you haven't lived until you've dug in fenceposts by hand...every summer), fixing the sailboat, repairing the barn, the list goes on and on...

My point is, manual labor is comforting to me. It reminds me of home, and reminds me that there's more I can do with this body of mine than ride the Metro to work and sit in front of a computer screen all day. (Did I mention how corporate work was slowly killing me? No? Another post then.)

So, go volunteer. Check out Habitat for Humanity. Or check out another organization that's more up your alley. But get out of your own head, and get out of your own problems -- go help someone else. 

A roof over my head

So you know that picture I posted at the end of my last post, as kind of a joke? The one that said “And then the plan went horribly awry”? This is where I explain how that joke isn't such a joke anymore.

One skill that all recent grads need to master is flexibility. As an experienced international traveler, I thought I dominated this. Yeah, I thought smugly to myself, I am SO flexible. Flexible like a rubber band, flexible like Mr. Fantastic, flexible enough to handle pretty much anything, because I’m a GROWN-UP now.

Hmm, maybe I was a bit prideful, too?

God has been teaching me that no matter how much I think I’ve developed a certain skill, I can always use more practice.  Case in point: Playing musical-housing-situation in DC with scarce funds and limited mobility.  It’s a really fun game. You should try it sometime. You get to meet interesting people (like strangers on the sidewalk who inform you that your chosen apartment is in a really unsafe neighborhood), sleep in unusual places (floors, futons and couches), and mooch off your friends (sorry guys, I’ll have my life figured out eventually). You learn to function on a bare minimum of sleep and an absolute max of stress, and you try to rationalize an hour-and-a-half commute to work.

Perhaps some background information would be helpful?  I moved to DC. I stayed with some friends for a few days, then I lugged my bags 7 blocks away to my own, new apartment. Enjoyed about 2 days of feeling accomplished, then met multiple random strangers who told me I hadn’t chosen the safest neighborhood.  Enter period of self-doubt and inner turmoil. Run frantically around the city like a naive little chicken with her head cut off searching for alternate housing. Put new roommate and landlord in a predicament because they *might* have to find a new tenant, but then again, they might not.

I told myself I would have a definite answer to my housing question by this weekend, but due to events beyond my control that isn’t possible. Maybe in another week?

This is the key phrase: due to events beyond my control.  Recent grads will have to learn to make peace with this phrase.  I cannot control all the variables that make up my life. And it is futile and frustrating to try.  Maybe I should sit back and let Someone else take charge? Maybe I should pause to reconsider God’s sovereignty?

Maybe I should count my blessings, instead of my woes.  I have a friend in a much more terrible housing situation than I.  One of my buddies has an even longer commute to work than mine.  I pass people in the street everyday who don’t have a place to live, who don’t have a family supporting their every step, who have much less hope. 

Despite my uncertainties, I know I’m taken care of.  When it rains – literally or metaphorically – at least I have a roof over my head. Even if I haven't officially signed the lease on it yet. (And even if the AC unit leaks water into the house when it rains, as I discovered a few minutes ago.)

B.A. : It stands for...

In about three weeks I will walk across a stage, not trip in front of my entire class and their families, humbly accept my diploma, and officially graduate.

Great. Wonderful.  That’s just bloody phenomenal. 

It actually IS bloody phenomenal, but I don’t really want to talk about graduation.  (And I bet you don’t either. Especially if you’re also a senior.)  I want to talk about the value of my education. 

What does my BA really stand for?  I’ll give you a hint: it doesn’t rhyme with Rad Grass.

Haha, I bet I just made you think a naughty word.

Seriously though.  A B.A. is supposed to stand for Bachelor of Arts (though since I’m a woman, maybe I should have a Bachelorette of Arts? …Nevermind, not important). It shows that I spent four or more years attending to my education, “expanding my cranium and popping some neurons,” in the words of Mrs. Doubtfire.

I feel a little gypped, though.  In the Good Ole Days (notice the respect I accord them with my capitalization), a high school diploma was an advanced education.  It ensured men that they could run a store or a farm, and be financially responsible for both their business and their family.  It ensured women that they could…be teachers. Or get married.  (Ok, let’s change some things about the Good Ole Days.)

Not only was high school as far as you could go up the education ladder, it was free.  Major plus right there. 

Today, a Bachelor of Arts (or even of Science) is not free.  In fact, my college is about  120,000 times the opposite of free.  Furthermore, I’m not convinced that my modern-day college education is worth the price – the job market is telling me that my BA, my four years of intensive study, is not enough anymore.

Somehow, college is beginning to feel a bit like high school.  Like something everyone does because they are supposed to and because it’s the minimum requirement for the job market.

I ran across some statistics.  Let me share them with you.

• 84% say that it is extremely (37%) or very (47%) important to have a college degree in order to get ahead.


• 87% strongly (68%) or somewhat (19%) agree that a college education has become as important as a high school diploma used to be.


• 78% strongly agree (38%) or agree (40%) that college is not doing its job if its graduates are not prepared to enter the job market.


• 96% say that career training is a very (72%) or somewhat (24%) important goal for colleges and universities.


• When asked in another way about the relative importance of a well-rounded education versus job training, the public is divided. Half (51%) of the public say that if they had a child in college, it would be more important for their child to get a well-rounded education; 40% think that training for a well-paying job would be more important.

Statistics compiled by highereducation.org from surveys done by a variety of sponsors, including Time, CNN, and the National Center for Public Policy and Higher Education.

So, according to these statistics a college education is vitally important but it might not be doing its job in preparing me for a job, and 40% of America thinks my time would have been better spent training for a specific job rather than making myself well-rounded.

Well.  Isn't that encouraging.

Can I get my money back?

Before the class of 2011 jumps en masse off the nearest cliff, let's think critically for a bit. (Since that is, after all, what we're trained to do.)  In this reluctant economy, the odds of us being able to survive long-term at ONE particular job and vocation are very slim.  Most of us will bounce around a bit, and will probably switch careers a couple times -- and that is why we WANT to be well-rounded.  It gives us the ability to be adaptable.  Which is attractive to employers.  I know I'm gonna talk up my adaptability during job interviews.  I'm pretty much a chameleon. 

The other reason we should be glad we went to college: other people think it's important. By "other people", I mean parents and employers.  And your friends.  And your average Joe.  And your average Jane (since I am gender-inclusive).  The only ones who don't agree are those who didn't go to college, and yet found success anyway. Buggers.

The most important reason we should be glad we went to college: Uh, it's fun. Duh.

Wanted: Experience

As I’ve waded through the Internet searching for jobs, I’ve been lucky enough to find a few that I really like. As in, I would kill to get that particular job. (Okay, not really…)

The point, though, is that the world DOES indeed have jobs that sound right up my alley.  For example, doing research for the Middle Eastern desk for the Council on Foreign Relations. Or filling the junior editor position at an online publication about politics and world events.  Or working for an Arab media production company.  I DO speak some Arabic; that should help get my foot in the door, right?

Wrong.

Turns out, employers don’t care all that much about my international experience, my extra-curriculars, my ability to adapt, my sociability and work ethic.  I think employers look for one main thing, and if that thing is not stamped boldly on your resume then your application is thrown out before you can shout Wait, I’m a quick learner! 

Here’s a comic to give you a hint, in case you’re not a senior and you have no idea what I’m talking about (and in case you missed the title of this post):

Employers want experience.

That’s fair of them, I guess, but sometimes their expectations seem as ridiculous as the comic above.  For an entry-level position, something as straightforward as research or answering phones, they want 2 – 5 years of relevant experience?

Or a junior editor position, they want 10 years of experience?

Holy Jimminy, how are we supposed to gain experience if no one will hire us because we lack it?  And furthermore, after 10 years of experience why on earth would I apply for your lousy Junior Editor position? I think I’d rather go to my hometown and take over the local paper there.  Be the Editor-in-Chief.  In your face, Junior Editor.

You see, it’s a vicious cycle.  I don’t have experience, you don’t hire me.  But in order to gain experience, someone somewhere someday will simply HAVE to hire me.  Someone will take a chance on the recent grad, right?

I sincerely hope so.  However, I believe that the only escape from this paradox is…the internship.

Ahem, let me re-phrase: the UNPAID internship.

This leads me into another topic and another completely separate cycle of helpless rage, so I’ll leave it here for today.  Quick preview though: My undergraduate education, for which I paid $30,000+ for four years, is no longer sufficient to catapult me into the working world.