To manicure, or not to manicure?

Today I have an interview at a local newspaper for one of their reporter positions, and I am thrilled. When the editor called me yesterday, I excitedly flew into a mock panic as I stared at myself in the mirror, noting my desperate need of a new dye-job and my short, stubby, picked-at nails.

I resolved to wake up early the next morning and find myself a cheap nail station to buy myself a sexy new set of nails to round out the physical being that would present themselves for hire at 3:30 this afternoon.
As I trudged out the door at 8:30 a.m., I found myself drowsily thinking, "Why the hell do I have to do this again?"

No, not the job interview, the nails. I find the whole business of walking in a place and sitting before someone I don't know for two hours while they file, brush, and paint my fingernails into a beauty they could never possess on their own accord very awkward. I also resent the fact I have to spend money to make myself presentable for a job, when I am drowning in debt, and could never dream of justifying an expense like nails otherwise.

However, it is Cosmo 101 to get your hair and nails done before an interview, or as a matter of course in your career. As I was told in school years before, "It makes you look clean, professional."

It would also empty out my abysmal bank account.

Plus, a male friend of mine is interviewing for the same job. Do you think he is going through all the stress of looking pretty? No, I doubt it. His professionalism isn't based on the length and polish on his nails, or his newly dyed hair.
And so, I decided to take a stand against this latent form of misogyny and NOT get my nails done. I will file and paint their little stubs myself, and perhaps get some nice nails if I get this job and can afford it. But beforehand, it's just not logical, or fair.

Plus, without the fake nails I can garden, play sports, play PC games, and a bunch of other things that get harder as your nails get longer. Let's be real, if I had fake nails, in a week they would look like the ones below. Missing nails and the gunk left behind when they break off is definitely not professional.


So off I go on the great social experiment of our generation: Can Lydia get a job with fugly nails?

A year in fundamentalist hell

As featured in The Commuter Oct. 27, 2008.

"What is this place? A school, a jail, some weird cult place? I would soon find out that it is all those places, and more..." recounts Michele Ulriksen in her book, "Reform at Victory", an account of her year spent as "girl #56" in an all-girl fundamentalist Baptist lockdown school in Ramona, Calif.

Ulriksen's harrowing story brings to light the mentally and physically abusive treatment used in many fundamentalist reform schools, operating under the guise of Christian values and a rehabilitative environment. It is this type of treatment that Ulriksen hopes to inform others about.

After spending 10 years writing her account with the support of former reform school students, friends, and family, Ulriksen says she hopes her story will make an impact. A single mother of a thirteen-year-old daughter, LBCC student, and owner of West Hills Communication, located in Corvallis, Ulriksen has come a long way since her days in reform school. Now she has the opportunity to share her story and inform parents before they make a misinformed choice.

According to Ulriksen, 38, "Parents are often so desperate to get help for their teen, that they just go ahead and believe what they are told and they don't think critically and question, and look logically about how an experience like this will affect their teenager. They don't think about it that way."

Ulriksen believes it is important to understand that "everyone who says they are a Christian do not behave that way."

Her parents, like many others, trusted the administrators of Victory Christian Academy, and signed over custody of their daughter for one year to the school, unknowningly trapping her in what would become a year in fundamentalist Baptist "hell."

The author describes the day of her arrival at Victory as a deception planned by her family, who tricked her into believing they were visiting the zoo together. Upon her arrival she was dragged away from her parents by unknown people, stripped of her possessions, and forced into solitary confinement for hours. In her account, Ulriksen writes about her arrival, "Whatever this sick place is, I'm going in against my will. I don't know who or what is in there. I turn to look at my family. They won't make eye contact with me. With black mascara colored tears streaming down my cheeks, the faces around me are now only a blur."

So begins the year Ulriksen spent in reform "school." Forced to take unknown medications, given no privacy, and berated daily by the staff, Ulriksen and other girls attending had to endure Biblical indoctrination and constant attacks on their self-worth meant to brain-wash them and break them into submission. Escape was impossible from the facility. A former FBI bunker, surrounded by a 12-foot electric fence a mile off the main road, Victory Christian Academy was completely isolated from the outside world. Ulriksen writes, "By the time we got to talk to our parents we were already brainwashed...into thinking that we would be left there longer if we told our parents."

According to the author, many girls who leave such facilities and report abuse are labeled "troubled teenagers" and "liars," and are often not believed because of their previous history.
"Authorities and social services won't go out there unless they received numerous reports. You have to go out of there with bruises, or evidence of sexual abuse, for them to do anything."

After the death of a young student the year following Ulriksen's departure, Victory Christian Academy was investigated and forced to close by California authorities. The facility was found to have numerous safety violations and deemed an "extreme fire hazard" by a San Diego fire marshal.
However, the program reopened in Jay, Florida under the same name, and is now operating under a different name with new owners.

Although Ulriksen's experience at Victory Christian Academy left her with emotional damage, low self-esteem, anxiety and depression, and caused her to attempt to take her own life twice, she recognizes that all private reform schools are not isolated and fundamentalist.

Ulriksen encourages parents to research the schools they are considering, check with the Better Business Bureau, and look for any complaints or lawsuits that were filed. She encourages parents to look beyond their religion and avoid any programs that do not let them speak to their children or, "that instills such a strong message of fundamentalist values, anti-choice, anti-female, old testament, hard core. These can be very damaging, and hurt a girl's self-esteem when she was already going through problems."
Instead, Ulriksen says to find a school that "teaches the love of Jesus and not the wrath of the Old Testament."

Shelby Earnshaw, Director of the International Survivor's Action Committee, says about the book, "Child abuse masquerading as religion is a very real and serious problem. Reform at Victory sheds light on an issue that is largely ignored by our society."

Although in the beginning writing Reform at Victory brought up bad memories, she says that she now "feels like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I have closure."

To the girl with "crack" in my geology class

Hello,
You sit in the row in front of mine, one seat to the left. The squeaky stools are uncomfortable to us all, and one most practically plan ahead to dress appropriately for the fashion faux-pas they threaten. But you, my geologist friend, have neglected to notice the full view the back-less seats offer.
The waist on your jeans are way, way too low. Each week your pants don't just creep lower and lower, they free-fall as soon as your butt makes contact with the seat.
And there I am, along with the rest of the class behind you, trying not to notice what even a plumber would find shameful.

At first I considered telling you, out of consideration for your feminine modesty, but as my shyness delayed any attempt, I decided you surely must know what you are doing. How could you not feel the cool air conditioning on your skin? Sixteen square inches is a lot of space to neglect feeling a breeze, and you show at least that.
A friend suggested your display was purposeful, that you might find the "coin slot" desirable. If that is true, take it from me, it is not. And the two guys behind you who snicker everyday. Be glad they haven't produced their camera phones.
You seem like a really nice girl, and we even have some things in common.
Like spinach in your teeth, or a booger in your nose, sometimes you just don't know when you're embarrassing yourself. So take this passive hint, and pull your pants up.

"The Shack" Where boredom meets eternity...

I recently received a gift card to Barnes and Noble and immediately endeavored to spend my $20 on the most worthwhile reading material I could afford. I browsed through hundreds of books, considered buying a couple from my favorite authors, Cormac McCarthy and Paulo Coelho, and then began to browse the New York Times best-sellers.
At the top of the list was The Shack: Where Tragedy Confronts Eternity

I was intrigued by the title, and even more so by the book's location, right here in Oregon. Deciding to try something new, and because the price was right, I purchased the book. By the time it arrived I was so excited to have something new to read, especially something that spent weeks at the top of the New York Times best-selling list. Within five pages of reading, I began to wonder what was so special about this story.
For one, the writing was incredibly amateur. I could hear my writing teacher's voice in my head, correcting the bad grammar and long, boring dialogue.
Second, the theological concepts presented in this book were neither difficult to understand or new to Christian thought. Sure, they are not widely accepted by modern Christianity, but neither are they new and profound. This books asks the same old questions, "Why is there evil in the world?" "Why do bad things happen to good people?" "How can I be closer to God?"

Not only was the dialogue poor and the writing amateurish, but the story itself never completes itself. The end of the book drops off like a poorly written soap opera that is out of ideas. There is so much talk of "the little lady-killer," that by the time he is exposed in the story no details are given. This book is all theology and only wannabe crime drama, with little to offer the reader who wants to know the whole story.

"The Shack" is an OK book for anyone interested in serious literature. It is a GREAT book for the serious Christian, who I imagine are the ones that shot this thing straight to No. 1 on the list.

What really gets me about this story are the amount of Christian authors who are making a fortune just writing about it. For instance, a search on Amazon.com of the book's title brings up "Finding God in The Shack," and "The Shack: Unauthorized Theological Critique." What's most amusing is that these books, which attempt to explain the already simple, are selling for more than the actual book.

Go ahead and read it if you are still interested, I think I'll be passing this one off to the very first person who wants to take it off my hands.

"If I read that headline one more time..."

A few weeks ago I had the rare opportunity to visit my older sister in Portland, who was visiting with her new beau, Mark. As we walked down SW Park, sun shining down on us and the noise of cars and passers-by in our ears, she asked my why I was not writing anymore.
I actually had not considered it deeply before, and it only then occurred to me that it had been a few months since I had posted anything.

"Oh, I've been writing," I told her self-consciously, "it's just all on paper at home and I don't feel like sitting in front of my computer to type it up. There's no feng shui in that corner of the house..."

My sister told me she checked my page all the time, and was tired of reading the same headline again and again.
"Besides," she told me, "I like your writing. It's clever and funny."

"Hurrah! Yes! Awesome!" Every word of pleasure and satisfaction came streaming into my head.

I vowed then and there to keep writing. I know it's been a few weeks since that point, but I did some thinking and decided where I want to head with everything I put to paper. I want to be clever and funny, I want to say what's on my mind, and I want to be a little more "out-there" than some might recommend for a budding reporter.

So thanks for reading after all this time, even if it's just you after all this time off, dear older sister.

Wait, your name is Lydia, too!?

On the first day of class this term, my geology teacher called my name and I answered as nonchalantly as usual. I was never expecting to be interrupted by a second hand going up in the air, that of the girl next to me. As I slammed my hand down in confusion over this interruption, my teacher informed me,
"Lydia, there is another Lydia in this class."
"No way!" I thought to myself, "I never meet other Lydias!"
On the few occasions when I have met someone with the same name, they have always shared the same excitement as me, I expected the same from this girl, who even looks a bit like me (freckles, light skin, thin).
"Wow! This is weird!" I exclaimed to her, "How do you spell it?"
She gave me a weird look, rolled her eyes and said, "L-Y-D-I-A. How ELSE would you spell it?"
I proceeded to tell her that I have had my name spelled all kinds of weird ways, including "Lideah," "Lydea," and the more common version, "Lidia."
This version of my name just smirked at her friend and didn't seem interested.
My sisters always joke that people with the same name often share characteristics. All three of us know never to date a guy named Josh, he's going to be full of himself. And Steve, well he's going to be a manipulative a**hole. It's just the law of the universe.
Meeting this bitchy, eye-rolling version of "Lydia" was a little much for me. I wonder if she's a reflection of me in some way, and all the previous Lydia's I have met were a reflection of a much happier, better me.
Bull-shit. I was totally nice to her, some girls are just bitches.

P.S. Maybe I will give the next Josh I meet a chance, too.

Dr. Google?

I love Google. If I can’t spell a word, I Google it. If I need to settle a late-night argument about the biological difference between dwarves and midgets, I Google it. Video game walk-throughs? Google. News? Google. The options are endless for the every-day Internets user. But what about doctors caring for patients? Is using Google appropriate then? I hardly think so.
Recently I took my seriously ill husband in to the Benton County Health Department, located in Corvallis, where he was being seen for Grave’s Disease and hyperthyroidism. After three months of treatment I expected the doctor who had seen us each at each visit to have some knowledge of my husband’s disease and treatment options. I expected the doctor to be familiar with my husband’s symptoms and even (gosh!) the medication he had been prescribed at this very clinic. I was wrong. Instead this doctor stared blankly at my husband, turned to his computer, and before our very eyes, he Googled my husband’s disease.


After three serious minutes of clicking on random links and staring for perhaps thirty seconds at a page from WebMD.com, our doctor was a verified specialist in Graves. Or so he thought. He told us my husband’s symptoms weren’t an issue (his skin was yellow and he was bleeding from his ears…) and to get some counseling to deal with stress. He then went on to say he couldn’t find any substantive information and dealing with this disease was “above his pay grade.” Or maybe he just realized his own incompetence and that Google, as useful as it is, was not going to help him be a good doctor.
When my husband was diagnosed I too used Google to find information on his disease. I spent countless hours late at night reading any information I could find. Medical reports and journals, WebMD, entire books published by endocrinologists about Grave’s Disease. The amount of information found on Google was overwhelming, and would take even the fastest reader more than three minutes of searching to come up with consistent and accurate information. Anyone with a writing class on campus knows you can’t believe everything you read on the Internets, it is what our teachers tell us on day one. So why was this doctor I was paying $300 a visit using Google, and seemingly nothing else, to find information?
As patients we need to demand more of our doctors. We need to demand the best care possible, and that includes having informed doctors who are prepared to disseminate, organize, and find the facts in the information we, the patients, find on Google. Everyday people can use Google to find information, but doctors need to be held to higher standards. These people make decisions that can affect our health, and our lives, and must be prepared when we seek their help and advice. Google doesn’t cut it.
Next time you make a visit to your doctor’s office, take a look at what he or she is doing on their computer. Be prepared to question the source of their information, and the extent of their knowledge. I checked with an endocrinologist in Portland, and it turned out everything the doctor at the Corvallis Health Department had told us was wrong, and down-right dangerous. So don’t leave your health and the health of your loved ones in the hands of Google, I am glad I didn’t.

P.S. Cartoon courtesy of Clagnuts Cartoon Blog
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