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23 Oct 13:00

Past peak

by Kristin

Apparently, the trees in Minnesota have turned. Their colors have peaked and the things that I see are just a pale remnant of the things they have been. If only I had been here a week ago!

Of course, I wasn’t. I was at home, in Washington DC, which is still strangely verdant with a splash of jewel tone here and there and a few odd trees with no leaves all. There are enough on the ground to slightly crunch as I walk, but crossing the Potomac last weekend, the Virginia side of the Memorial Bridge offered a view of green, green, brilliant red, green, green, green, green, green, green.

Today I woke in Minnesota, plunged into perfectly pleasant weather, and surrounded by trees that are slightly past peak, and I don’t see the fading, the turning, the passing of peak. I see gorgeous shades of red, yellow and orange. Streets are lightly blanketed. Yards are filled as people fight a futile battle with rakes.

I remember my own childhood and our very large yard. Did we really rake all that for a quarter a bag? Did we really make whole dollars (and several) working at that rate? I remember blisters, large piles of bags and losing an amethyst ring somewhere in the midst of it. We probably should have had some way to compost, but that really wasn’t the thing then. I have mental images of enormous, looming piles of straining black plastic.

Twenty… 30 years later, the sight doesn’t mean plastic, blisters or rakes. On the way home from a store, a line of shrubs in varying shades of red, yellow and green looked almost as if it had been placed there by some artist’s brush, but no man would ever think of such a thing. It was almost too perfect, too even to believe in a painting and almost beautiful beyond belief, as presented by nature.

The colors make me want to carry a camera (or four) and wander the streets, snapping pictures every few steps, and yesterday, I stood outside my mom’s car, at the end of the driveway, doing just that. Later, I dragged one of my (gorgeous) nieces outside to snap a few pictures of her with trees in the background because the colors were stunning (much like my niece), and she was leaving for camp. Everything felt so very fleeting. Exquisite. Rare.

Maybe the trees aren’t quite as beautiful as they once were but that doesn’t matter. I cannot see something I don’t really know. I am not comparing them to anything (not even DC, not really) because I am here now, in this place, in this moment, and seeing the trees as they are: Magnificent.
24 Oct 13:00

One plus one

by Kristin

"Are going to have family jammie time?" I ask, singing a little. "Family jammie time; family jammie time!"

"Sure," the teen says, shaking her head. "I have to do my homework."

I do not actually have pajamas. They have failed to make my small bag, but I borrow a sleep shirt from Mom. The girl comes back in sweats and a t-shirt with her hair wrapped in a towel, and my niece, her mother and I curl up to talk over reality television and homework as we end a very long day.

I worked all day. I worked more than all day, starting in the wee dark hours and still going at five. Then, I hung out with the kids from my sister's preschool, read a few picture books, and played ball with the ones who remained.

"You're my new friend," a 5-year-old announced. "Are you going to be here again?"

"I will be here tomorrow."

"And after that?"

"Well, I have to go home again after this weekend."

"And Tuesday?"

"I will be at home again on Tuesday, and I live really far away."

"And after that? Friday? Will you be here on Friday?"

"I will be here tomorrow. Tomorrow is Friday."

He looked worried.

His younger brother toddled over to the chair where I sat, wrapped two of my fingers in his tiny hand, and tugged. My sister laughed. The 5-year-old introduced me to his father.

"This is my friend."

They disappeared into the waning daylight and we remembered the solar eclipse. We couldn't see it (without the protective eye wear), but we ran toward the front yard and glanced that way, anyway, talking, laughing and taking pictures of each other, trees and leaves and the light. Dinner. TV. Homework.


Over the past 25 years, coefficients and variables drifted into dusty parts of my mind, but after my sister goes to bed, my niece and I sit on on the couch reviewing X and Y squared, As, Bs, plus and minus.

"I used to tutor this," I remember with a start. "In high school? As a freshman, I tutored some of the senior ballers in algebra and geometry."

Scared of my own shadow, quiet, and poorly dressed, not necessarily unpopular so much as invisible, I sat in the hall outside of Pedretti's classroom and figured out how to help the most popular boys pass their classes by making sense of the unknown. Somewhere in there, I might have figured it out for myself. Maybe. Just a little. I fell in love with numbers. Then, I went to college and majored in journalism. I didn't know that I could find a career in math other than teaching, which I could not imagine. Writing was harder, so I studied that.

These days, I write for myself and make a living in math. I find curling up on the couch (and helping my niece figure out algebra) among my favorite things about a day filled with work, new friends and sunshine.
24 Oct 20:30

Get the Scientific 7-Minute Workout on Any Device with This Web App

by Patrick Allan

Get the Scientific 7-Minute Workout on Any Device with This Web App

When you're strapped for time, getting your sweat on is sometimes a luxury that goes by the wayside. That's where the Scientific 7-Minute Workout comes in . This newly launched web app can easily guide you through the research-based workout via a browser web app on PC, smartphone, or tablet.


24 Oct 23:37

Ketamine helps depressed patients temporarily experience pleasure again

by Mark Frauenfelder

Ketamine, a tranquilizer/anesthetic and recreational drug, can relieve symptoms of depression for up to a couple of weeks, writes psychiatrist Emily Deans.

Read the rest
19 Oct 13:00

On writing

by Kristin

So, the sun rose today... It was a little cloudy, a little windy, and awfully cold. There wasn't much to see at all and then, a flock of birds flew past as I snapped a picture. It wasn't a great shot, but it was mine. That moment with the sun and the birds and the wind. My memory. Part of my life.

Every day, I write a story, an essay, a reflection on something happening in my own life, and every day, I struggle to find something to say. As my mother recently noted, I have covered a lot of topics, and in 9+ years of mostly daily writing, one is bound to do so. Something like 3,338 published posts (outside of this one) live on this site.

When I started 9+ years ago, I did not set out to write 3,338 posts. At that point, I grappled with the idea of writing just one. And then another. And then another. Three thousand three hundred and forty eight days later, I am still wrestling with the idea.

Part of the problem, as I have written before, is that there are things in my life that I just don’t want to share. Some things, I just want to keep to myself. Relationships. Family. Things that involve other people because their stories are not really mine to share. Likewise, I am not comfortable writing about work. This is not the appropriate forum for airing my professional life; though, I can say that I do love my job. I feel very fortunate to have found it… Have I ever told that story?

Almost 13 years ago, my roommate at the time (who was dangerously close to becoming my common-law wife because we spent so many years living together and whom I haven’t seen in more than a decade) decided to celebrate her 30th birthday in her favorite place: The Bahamas. She and friend were seated together toward the back of the plane, and I was on my own near the front and seated beside a woman who looked decidedly nervous.

Determined to distract her from whatever made her clutch the armrest so tightly, I started talking to the woman, the stranger. As it turned out, her discomfort was warranted a million times over; she and her husband were headed to his son’s funeral. No parent should ever have to bury a child.

We talked for a while in the short space between National and Charlotte where we both changed planes, and I think that maybe I made her laugh just a bit. (Despite the heavy topics I frequently cover, I am really quite funny.) She smiled, at least, and as we disembarked, she turned to hand me a business card.

“I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know if you’re happy with your job, but I think you’d be a great fit for our company.”

She was right. About a month ago, I left that company (the one my seatmate suggested) to take a job with my client, doing the same work as a direct employee. I had been there for more than 12 and a half years. I still love the work.

Maybe I have written that story before. Almost everyone who knows me has heard it once or twice or so it feels – familiar, worn, like a favorite pair of jeans. I try not to tell it that often, though. I don’t want to wear a hole in the memory and again, I like to keep some things to myself.

In the past 9+ years of writing, I have found myself talking less, telling fewer stories, and listening more, which is funny. I almost always have thoughts on a subject. There are always things I want to say. Granted, I have started to slur and stutter, which is incredibly frustrating when trying to speak, but more than that, I figure I ought to get over myself and let someone else talk. I can write my stories later.

Then, I sit at a computer and wonder what in the world I can say. How can I be interesting? What would I want to say that anyone else might want to hear? Read? Consider for the amount of time it takes to get from Once Upon a Time to The End?

I start typing.

Somehow, as I write, stories form. Lately, it seems that all I write deals with big heavy topics like health, money and an uncertain future, but when I look at the screen, I really just want to write light, happy things. I smile a lot. I think the world is truly a beautiful place, even with illness, with war, with helium and clown shortages.

Lately, I have considered how much my life has changed in the past few months (with 100 happy days) and the past year and a half (with my diagnosis), but I don’t know that I have ever really written about the past 9+ years or how the writing itself has shaped my life.

Writing is considered a healthy habit. It helps people express their emotions and think through situations and experiences. Studies have show that people who write sleep better and it’s possible that they heal faster, too. Physically. Outside of the health aspects, though, telling stories every day has meant that I have needed live a life worth telling. I have done more, seen more, lived more than I ever imagined. I have written from all seven continents including the use of a fairly expensive satellite phone from Antarctica. I have grown up a lot.

A million stories live inside my mind. Some are n0t really worth a post of their own. The smell of caramelizing onions, cornbread, roasted squash with sage and thyme that I bought in Uruguay fill my house, head and memory, but I don’t know how to weave them together in a tale. Not yet. I can only write about answering letters from prisoners so many times before I start to sound like a broken record, even to me, and regular long walks and long talks on gorgeous autumn days don’t necessarily warrant mention at all. They just make life better.

Life is not all sunshine and sausages, but I am up before sunrise every day now and it still seems a marvel. Every single day. I don’t think I can write stories about it for the next 3,348 days, but I imagine I am going to sit behind a computer and try awfully hard.

20 Oct 13:00

Avoiding public panic

by Kristin

Walking past a metro stop on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, I considered what would happen if I were to vomit in the trash bin near the top of the escalator.

“Ebola,” I decided. “People would think I had Ebola.”

Of course, they would be wrong. There was absolutely no way I could have contracted the disease, but the current media frenzy had people thinking, wondering and worrying. (A friend recently canceled a family trip to Florida because she didn’t want to be locked in a germ-filled plane.) Public vomiting could definitely give rise to panic so I concentrated very hard on not tossing my cookies. I kept walking.

It was not an idle concern. I worried that I might not be able to make it home without getting sick. I had eaten too much, taken a bus, and lived in a nearly perpetual state of nausea. Really, it was more the last one than anything else.

Three quarters of the things that I take to stay healthy - both of my medicines and one of two vitamin supplements - cause nausea. I had only just started eating again when I started the second medication, which not only nauseates me but also suppresses my appetite and I lost the few pounds I had regained.

Nobody would look at me and think “Hey, that girl is totally wasting away. She should eat a sandwich.”

Of course, that is a horribly judgmental and shaming sort of remark. Nobody should ever think something like that, but I am not wasting away. Honestly, I could lose five or 10 pounds and still maintain a healthy weight. This is just not the way to do it. In fact, I have stopped losing weight altogether, which is somewhat frightening.

I work long hours, volunteer frequently and walk something between five and 10 miles a day, recently more as I train for a 3-day walk against breast cancer. I need more than a couple of pieces of fruit to sustain me, but I cannot stomach the idea. My body may be slipping into something called “starvation mode,” a state in which a body gets superefficient at making the most of the calories it does get from food and drink and starts eating into lean tissue or muscle to provide some of the calories it needs to function, resulting in muscle loss.

I continue to pack my regular breakfast and lunch, but it takes me a couple of days to eat them. My coworkers and friends have taken to telling me to eat. Regularly. And chastising me when I don’t. I, in turn, drink ever more ginger tea to settle my stomach and have adopted a strange obsession with the food, shopping at the grocery store on an almost daily basis, picking up high-calorie comfort foods along with the ingredients for ever-more-elaborate dishes, praying for the right combination, hoping something will stick.

Oatmeal cream pies! Candy corn! Rotini with roasted butternut squash and goat cheese topped with caramelized onions, apples and lightly salted, roasted squash seeds!

Yesterday, I accepted invitations to three separate brunches, and I went to all three. I even ate at two of them (with several hours and several miles of walking in between) with a little granola and fruit here, potato pancakes there and great conversation at all. Then, I went home and made dinner.

Yesterday, for the first time in more than a month, I ate three full (albeit small) meals, and I came dangerously close to tossing my cookies (granola and potato pancakes) in a public environment.

Some time soon, something will have to give. While I rather enjoy eating treats I have skipped for years, I might have to start carrying air sickness bags to avoid causing public panic.

I definitely do not have Ebola.
21 Oct 13:00


by Kristin

Leaving a theater on Monday night, I felt like I had it, whiplash, pain caused by an abnormal motion or force, usually caused by motion that pulls and strains because Whiplash (the movie) did exactly that. It pulled me in directions I seldom followed. It was a beautifully abnormal motion or force.

Critics have called it a jazz thriller, mesmerizing and seductive, uplifting, heartbreaking, electrifying and terrifying. I would not have credited it with universal appeal, but nearly all who have reviewed it have given high marks.

The film follows Andrew Neyman, “an ambitious young jazz drummer, single-minded in his pursuit to rise to the top of his elite east coast music conservatory. Plagued by the failed writing career of his father, Andrew hungers day and night to become one of the greats. Terence Fletcher, an instructor equally known for his teaching talents as for his terrifying methods, leads the top jazz ensemble in the school. Fletcher discovers Andrew and transfers the aspiring drummer into his band, forever changing the young man's life. Andrew's passion to achieve perfection quickly spirals into obsession, as his ruthless teacher continues to push him to the brink of both his ability-and his sanity.”

Directed and written by Damien Chazelle with Miles Teller as Neyman and J.K. Simmons as Fletcher, Whiplash is intense and thought provoking with a truly spectacular finish, one that pulled me to the edge of my seat and set my heart racing.

As I walked out, enervated but exhilarated, my mind spun from the scenes I had just seen through memories, hopes and fears. The characters were enigmatic - passions burned bright, their motives unclear.

The film left me wondering about my own passion and drive, whether I had settled in life, and what it would be like to want and do more. It left me questioning myself and whether I had sold out my dreams.

Of course, I don’t want to be a jazz musician; playing an instrument on stage dovetails nicely with my own private version of hell. Some of the drumming reminded me of high school band, inspiring a shudder or eight.

I don’t want to make movies or star in them. I am still figuring out who it is that I want to be, and after seeing Whiplash, after I recover a bit, I want to work even harder to get there because that's what good art - movies, music, direction and acting - can do. It makes me want to create. It makes me want to be better.

“There are no two words in the English language more harmful than “good job,’” Simmons said as Terence Fletcher.

Maybe he's right. I don't want to settle for good. Whiplash exceeded that with a driving force.

22 Oct 13:00

Promotional fare

by Kristin

It all sounded much better five months ago. New routes from Dulles! A $30 promotional fare!

At three o’clock in the morning, my interest waned. At four o’clock in the morning, waiting 15 minutes in a dark, shared van for a pair of silly young women who failed to answer their phone before jerking across the city, making a few more stops and heading to the airport, my interest revolted.

At the gate, waiting for my (delayed) flight, I wondered if I should ask a flight attendant for an airsickness bag before taking my (middle) seat. I could no longer count on finding one in the seat pocket. Based on the restrictions placed on that $30 fare, I almost wondered if I’d even have a seat.

With its debut at Dulles and introducing new routes, Frontier airlines offered the public $30 flights (roundtrip) to a handful of destinations for a very limited time. One night in May, my Facebook filled with news of people looking for flights. Available dates were limited and hours even worse, but somehow, I found one. I managed to book a flight from Washington to Minneapolis late in October.

Of course, Minneapolis wasn’t exactly at the top of most people’s lists. I, however, had several great reasons for going – my mom, my sister, my nieces, aunt, uncle and cousin, friends, friends with a new baby. I would even manage to see my niece for a few minutes on the morning of her 13th birthday before heading back to the airport. Over the weekend, we could find her gift together because haven knows that I couldn’t bring a gift with me.

Everything required for four nights and five days needed to fit in a single small bag. Not a carry on. Not a checked bag. A “personal item.” A purse. A backpack. Something less than 18” by 14” by 8”. Laptop, charger and camera. Medicine. A toothbrush. Deodorant. Underwear. In the space that was left, I wedged something to wear, breathing thanks for the fact that my clothes are small and planning to beg, borrow or steal anything missing from my family. Mom even offered makeup and hair products, which I never use. We could play dress up all weekend!

My personal item, i.e. my whole world for the next few days, needed to fit under the seat in front of me. The middle seat in front of me. Where I would be eating my knees. Selecting a seat (like taking a carryon or checking a bag) would have added to the cost. I gave up the idea of something with leg room, something other than a middle seat, but at least it was a direct flight.

I didn't need a 30 dollar fare. I could afford to pay full price. Though, I really didn't have to pay anything at all with nearly half a million airline miles in the bank. The restrictions on the cheap flight almost made reconsider its "value" but on the other side, I would see family and friends. Temperatures would be unseasonably warm, and checking it out reminded me of other trips, places and stories.

In my weather app, the list of cities continued to grow. Washington. DC, of course, topped the list, along with Minneapolis, New York and San Diego. Next, though, Kathmandu brought a smile to my mouth. Melbourne. Bangkok.

A little bit of discomfort really didn't matter. I was lucky to have seen so much of the world and I have the chance to spend a long weekend with loved ones. Definitely a win, at any price.
23 Oct 13:46

Uber Partners With Vaccine Finder To Bring A Free Flu Shot To You

by Matt Burns
uberrush2 The flu is more deadly than ebola and yet a simple vaccine could save your life. In that breath, Uber has partnered with Vaccine Finder to deliver a registered nurse and a vaccine kit for up to 10 people — of course on demand. Best of all the service is free, but the service is limited to just Boston, New York and DC from 10 am until 3 pm EST today, October 23, 2014. This is part of… Read More
22 Oct 00:13

San Francisco Airport First in the U.S. to Reach Deals With Uber, Lyft

23 Oct 15:58

Vatican Library Puts 4,000 Ancient Manuscripts Available Online for Free

17 Oct 13:00

Books and letters

by Kristin

On Wednesday, it rained. It rained a lot. The rain fell so hard that I could hear it from my desk three cubes from the window, and I can never hear the rain from my desk. I don't really see outside at all during the day. I know it exists, somewhere out there, but I can't tell if it is day or night, dark or bright. On Wednesday, though, I heard the rain.

Around me, people received tornado alerts on their cell phones. Some people congregated in the hall in the middle of the building, away from the windows. Some just kept working. I kept working, and the rain kept falling.

After work, I considered going home, even though it was Wednesday, even though I normally volunteered on Wednesdays, but I had a bag full of letters addressed just to me, words and thoughts of prisoners behind bars and I really just needed to respond.

I am a terrible pen pal. It is not a role I have sought, and I would never volunteer for such a thing. Not with prisoners. Not even with people I know and love. For a year, I served as a mentor to a student long distance, and I fear that I failed miserably. She never reached out to me, and after our initial interaction, I couldn't think of anything to say.

Despite the fact that I write every day and through it all, I struggle for words. I labor with ideas and finding a way to string a story together, to write something worth reading, to put out something worth remembering and representing me, even if nobody reads it or it's going to a man behind bars that I don't know and will never meet. I don't do things halfway. For some reason, more and more prisoners have started writing to me, and I feel pressure to respond.

While I was walking to the church that gives up space, the rain started pounding and I almost regretted leaving the shelter of metro. I could have stopped for a while and gotten a cup of coffee while I waited for the downpour to lighten, but I had my rain jacket and the umbrella that reminded me of another story, the Love Festival, and hiking in the Alps. Temperatures were still fairly warm and frankly, even if I got wet, I would get dry again. It was just water, a short walk, a short story and something to add to the letters.

"It's a cool, rainy night in DC - perfect for books and letters."

And it was.

Life has been somewhat exhausting lately. Not bad. Just a lot. Everything seems to take so much time, so much thought and so much work, and I am tired of thinking about it and about me. Thinking outside of myself let it all drift away.

I faced the rain, got a bit wet and volunteered a few hours with DC Books to Prisons. I answered most of those letters addressed to me, caught up with friends and fellow volunteers, and spent some time performing quality control on the packages pulled together by new volunteers. I didn't do much. I did not save the world, but I think that maybe I made a small difference. I made far more of a difference that I would have done if I had just gone home.
18 Oct 13:00

Lowering the cost

by Kristin

Yesterday, my heart nearly stopped. I went to my local pharmacy (for the fourth time in a week) to see if maybe the prior approval had come through on one of my prescriptions, and I found that it had. After insurance, I paid $230 for one month of one medication. Then, I went home and found that after insurance, on a monthly basis, I needed to pay almost $1,600 for my second prescription, the disease-modifying one, the one that I have to take twice a day for the rest of my life. That’s when my heart nearly stopped.

At a retail pharmacy, I would pay more than $19,000 for a single prescription on an annual basis. Granted, insurance would pay another $45,000 so I wouldn’t have to pay the full $64,000 on my own, but the numbers were staggering. There had to be a better way.

The Census Bureau reports the median household income at $53,046. Without insurance, my medicine – one of my medicines - would cost more than the average family brings home in a year. And I’m single. Using a more comparable metric from the Census Bureau means that my copayment with insurance for one year of one pill represents 68 percent of the per capita income.

That fact bears repeating. One year, one pill = 68 percent of the Census Bureau's per capita income WITH insurance.

Health care is the number one cause of bankruptcies in the United States. More than those from credit card debt and unpaid mortgages, bankruptcy from medical bills affected nearly 2 million people last year. Outside of bankruptcy, about 56 million adults – more than 20 percent of the population between the ages of 19 and 64 – struggled with health-care-related bills last year, according to NerdWallet Health as reported by CNBC, and having health insurance doesn’t save people from financial hardship.

My medicine isn’t supposed to fix anything. I have an incurable progressive and debilitating disorder. The capsule that I take is supposed to slow down the progression and disability. It won’t do anything to the damage I already have. It won’t make me better. The second pill that I take helps make me feel slightly better in light of that damage. (It calms my nerves to address pain and fatigue, and it keeps me awake in good ways.)

I did pick up the prescription that controlled some of my symptoms. I had only three pills left and hadn’t taken any for a couple of days, pacing myself, trying to make them last until the prior approval came through. When I realized the cost, though, I went home, sank into a chair and considered my options. I could use one of the online tools to find a pharmacy that offered the medicine for less. I could call my neurologist and ask for a cheaper alternative. I could just stop taking the medicine and give up feeling slightly better.

After a couple of hours of reading through paperwork, online with my insurance company and their pharmacy division, and a number of phone calls, I found a much more affordable option. I would still pay over $100 for the prescription that controlled my symptoms but the price of the disease-modifying one would drop from almost $1,600 a month to $35.

“Do people already know this?” I wondered. “How do people figure this out?”

It had taken weeks of coordination to get the prior approval (after months with my prior insurance) and hours of sorting through benefits and pharmacy information to find something I could afford.

Was some key piece of information missing from my education and upbringing? Did other people already know how to do it?

I might have jumped the gun with a serious diagnosis in my mid-30s, but eventually, as we grow older and our bodies start falling apart (or sooner with aging parents), we all need to figure it out. Health insurance. Prescriptions. Long term care. By the time we realize we need these things, it can be too late.

Maybe people already know how this all works, but I want to share some of the information that I have learned about prescriptions.

Don’t accept the price that the pharmacy gives you as the final price you will pay.

A few days ago, my prescription would have cost me almost $500. Yesterday, it should have cost $230 but I had a card from the pharmaceutical company, which saved me $50 so I paid $180. Going forward, if I use the mail order pharmacy, I will pay $105. (If the card from the manufacturer works, that will be lowered to $55.) Not only that, different retail pharmacies charge different prices for the exact same prescription, dosage and quantity. A number of online tools allow you to see who charges what.

* Compare prices between retail pharmacies. A number of online tools allow consumers to compare prices at local pharmacies. Some even offer coupons. A quick search resulted in GoodRx, Drug Price Search, I don't know how they compare; I actually do this through my insurer’s website.

* Contact your doctor. Explain the situation and ask what your options might be. Are generics available? Is there another medicine in the same class that will work? When I traveled to Sri Lanka, I needed to take an antimalarial, but I didn’t need to take the one originally prescribed (at hundreds of dollars). I could take another for $7. They had slightly different side effects but those differences were negligible.

I am taking the $500/230/180/105/55 medicine because my old insurance denied the original prescription. They dictated trying this one first, and my doctor switched. However, my new insurance not only covers the original but also offers a generic for as low as $5 a month. This might be a possibility; I need to talk to my doctor. I hate to feel like I am bothering her, but I have realized that it’s not a "bother." She is in my life to help me stay healthy and finding the right medicine, one that works and one that I can afford, is part of that.

* Contact your insurance company. Look online or call customer service to ask about options for filling prescriptions. Retail pharmacies (the local drugstore or the counter in your grocery) might be great for emergency, “I need it right now” sorts of prescriptions but mail service often provides a cheaper option for medicine taken long term and regularly.

* Contact the pharmaceutical company. Look online or call the company’s customer service department to ask about help in copayment, especially for branded drugs. If generics are not available, they very well might have a program in place.

This by no means constitutes a complete list and really only addresses those who have insurance, and maybe I am preaching to the choir. Maybe this is common knowledge. It's all new (and overwhelming) to me, and I want to share things as I continue to learn. This is all so confusing and a lot of work. I don't know how anyone does this, but at least my heart is still beating for now.
18 Oct 07:42

dafuq?! where the fuck?

dafuq?! where the fuck?

18 Oct 18:45

What are some animals that most people have never seen before?

by Xu Beixi
14 Oct 13:00


by Kristin

We didn't expect it to be good, not in the "Academy Award winning, this is going to change the way we see the world" kind of way. We just wanted a decent scare on a rainy Monday afternoon. Unfortunately, outside of a few cheap thrills, Annabelle failed to deliver.

With a three-day weekend and gloomy weather, my nephew and I made plans to see Annabelle, the prequel to last year's horror hit The Conjuring. The boy and I had seen The Conjuring together, deconstructing it after the film and determining what we thought worked and what we considered poor execution. We talked it out. We decided we weren't all that scared. We liked it enough, though, to follow it up with Annabelle, the story of the evil doll shown at the start and end of it all.

In the new film, a dashing young doctor has found the perfect gift for his pregnant wife, a rare vintage doll in a white wedding dress to complement her collection. Unfortunately, the dolls draw the attention of a home invader, a member of a satanic cult intent on death and destruction. Gristly violence ensues with blood, shrieks and tears, and the invaders leave more than terror in their wake. They have conjured something purely evil, and all seem attached to that doll.

The movie borrows heavily from better horror films and depends on cheap jolts rather than building the story line, characters or plot. There were a few moments when we jumped in our seats (generally when someone was flying across a room) but the film soon passed from our minds. It didn't have staying power. We weren't really that scared.

Far more frightening were multiple signs saying that children under the age of 6 are not allowed into Rated R films. Frankly, I wondered whether I should be taking the 16-year-old and checked with his dad before we went. When he wanted to bring a friend, I asked if her parents were fine with it, too.

I could not imagine that any child aged six or younger could fully understand that the doll wasn't really the source of the terror. The doll was really only tangentially linked. Movies with things children associate with their own life - dolls, clowns, other children (like the little girls in The Shining) - could be particularly terrifying and hard to understand at such a young age. Nevertheless, there they were. In the seats down the row, a preschooler sat between a pair of adults. A few rows in front of us sat another.

While the movie itself didn't provide a proper fright, we still managed to find one in the theater.
10 Oct 15:30

We Can All Learn Something From the Panda

We Can All Learn Something From the Panda

Submitted by: (via BaronXRojo)

Tagged: racism , panda , wisdom , hacked irl , g rated , win
12 Oct 18:45

What are the best real-world examples of "the boy who cried wolf"?

by Graeme Shimmin

Iran being 'two years away from having a nuclear weapon' - which they have been now since 1984.

  • 1984: The first claim of an Iranian nuke in 'as little as two years' is in Janes Defence Weekly based on 'intelligence sources'.
  • 1992: Binyamin Netanyahu claimed Iran was “3 to 5 years” from having a nuclear weapon.
  • 1992: Israeli Foreign Minister Shimon Peres claimed the Iranians would have a nuclear warhead by 1999.
  • 1995: US officials (and Binyamin Netanyahu again) claimed Iran would have a warhead by 2000.
  • 1996: Ehud Barak told members of the UN Security Council that Iran would be able to produce nuclear weapons by 2004. Shimon Peres disagreed, he thought they would be ready in 2000.
  • 1998:  Donald Rumsfeld told Congress that Iran could have a nuclear armed intercontinental ballistic missile that could hit the US by 2003.
  • 1999: 'Israeli officials' claim Iran will have a bomb by 2004.
  • 2001: Israeli Minister of Defence Binyamin Ben-Eliezer claims Iran will have a bomb by 2005.
  • 2003: 'Israeli military sources' claim Iran wil have a bomb by 2005.
  • 2009: Binyamin Netanyahu is back with a claim that an Iranian bomb is 'one to two years away'. Mossad chief Meir Dagan claims 2014 is the date. IDF General Baidatz goes against the grain by speculating it will take as long as three years.
  • 2010: 'Israeli sources' claim 'Iran is, at most, one to three years away from having a breakout nuclear capability.'
  • 2012: Binyamin Netanyahu claims Iran is six months from a bomb.

Read other answers by
Graeme Shimmin on Quora:Read more answers on Quora.
12 Oct 13:00

The end of happy

by Kristin

Apparently, yesterday was the last of my happy days. In a flash, three months have passed. I have found and shared at least one happy thing for each of the last 100 days. I made it! I have not yet completely alienated family or friends with inane pictures plus a hashtag! Rather, a few people told me that my pictures made their own days brighter, and I want to keep posting, with or without a hashtag. I am not ready for my happy days to end.

If I had realized that yesterday marked the last of my hundred, I might have considered something with a little more flash. I might have found or tried to do something more than enjoy finding time to sort through laundry and my photographs, but perhaps the unknowing made it more real, more appropriate, more me. I really was happy with a little time for reflection and order on a cool rainy day. I don't have nearly enough of that.

I did not know I had reached my goal until I opened my calendar sometime late afternoon. As of today, I had a clear slate at six where once I had a reminder to post because 100 days ago I created an event just for me. #100happydays. For the past 99, my calendar sent me a daily reminder to find happiness.

Some days of the past 100, I struggled to find something to shoot and something to say. Some days, I couldn't think of a single happy thing and posted something small. The days weren't bad; they just were. Some days, I weighed all of the happiness around me and deliberated over which one to pick - just one! The project reminded me to be present and positive.

Posting a picture a day did not change my life. I cannot run faster or jump higher now. My head isn't fixed. I have not fallen in love or discovered the meaning of life (42), but maybe I have enjoyed and appreciated the world around me just a little bit more.

During the past 100 days, I have made my first foray into home ownership and moved from two bedrooms to one. It included the end of a relationship and the end of a job. I started a new one, a new job, at least, which was the old one with a new dynamic and employer, earlier hours and increased responsibility. I did not start another relationship. New medication yielded adverse side effects, and I fought headaches and nausea for 24 of the 100 days. Someone tried to steal my car. I traveled to Croatia. I turned a year older.

The past 100 days haven't exactly been easy. They have actually been downright hard. Maybe the project did change my life - I don't know where I would be if I hadn't focused on finding the good in life. (I imagine a big hot mess.) 

Even though the "official" 100 days have ended, I plan to keep searching for happiness in my daily life, even when it's really just finding the time to finish my laundry and sort through pictures of a lunar eclipse.

09 Oct 07:53

A water balloon full of mercury hitting the ground.

11 Oct 04:53

samaelcarver: The Meme of our Years.


The Meme of our Years.

09 Oct 13:00

Autumn resolutions

by Kristin

Summer officially ended two and a half weeks ago (and unofficially sometime back in August), but fall didn't feel real until last night. The mornings are cool. Sweaters and jackets abound. Boots have been toeing their way out of closets for weeks, but it wasn't until last night that the feeling struck and stayed. Autumn is here.

The evening wasn't particularly cool. In fact, it was warmer than the past few nights and I felt fine in a light summery sweater without a jacket. It was dark, but the hour was late. I didn't notice the sun setting earlier, and frankly, with a shift in my schedule, I might not have noticed anyway. Everything happens earlier in my life these days. It just.... It smelled like fall.

Something in the air around me evoked a million thoughts as leaves crunched underfoot. I imagined a hint of smoke in the breeze, fireplace smoke not barbecue smoke. Caramel apples. Hot chocolate. Football games, sweaters and blankets. Long nights. Crisp mornings and brilliant afternoons, warm and sunny with clear blue skies. Never really knowing how to dress for the day and layering anyway, carrying most of the layers home later.

Even as trees shed their leaves, birds migrate and bears hibernate, the world seems to start fresh in the fall, in the autumn. The feeling was nurtured into us through the education system. School years started in August or September.

For me, school always started the Tuesday before Labor Day followed by a three-day weekend and four-day week. The third week of school was another short one with a teachers' in-service day and the county fair. (It might have been the start of hunting season, too.) The first weeks were short, but everything started the Tuesday before Labor Day.

An early September birthday further entrenched that feeling, and last night, when I smelled autumn in the air, I felt a rush of exhilaration. Of anticipation. Of promise. A new year was starting.

I feel as if I should resolve to do something in the new year before me. January seldom finds resolutions from me; it really just feels more like the same. This year, the one starting right now, I plan to take better care of myself and do what I can to help the ones around me. I want to make the world a better place. I want to continue moving toward the person I want to be.

The last year was hard, but that's over now. It is time to turn a new (fallen) leaf and see what the world has to hold.
09 Oct 07:12

Memorabilia from the Shitwind collection.

Memorabilia from the Shitwind collection.

08 Oct 13:00

Lunar eclipse

by Kristin

There are distinct advantages to rising so early and walking to work - health, fitness, and peace of mind, not to mention taking advantage of early morning alertness. I rather like the shift in my schedule even as I continue to figure out how to fit the rest of my life around it and get enough sleep. Once in a while, though, the stars, sun and moon align to make the early hours even better.

From the moment I rose to a quick morning break around sunrise, walking west and stopping for pictures every three blocks, I saw the moon progress from full, fat and happy to a total eclipse and start her way back again toward full.

My pictures might have been better if I had a tripod. They might have been a lot better if I knew what I was doing and had gone out specifically to take pictures of the moon rather than trying to sneak them in as I walked, but I stopped every three blocks anyway.

At a corner near my house, a runner stopped me and pointed up.

"The eclipse," she said. "Did you see?"

At the office, much closer to total, I joined a dozen coworkers in staring up at a dark moon in a darker sky and as they snapped with their cell phones, I pulled out a rather large camera, played with the settings and tried to capture something I knew I'd never quite get.

All through the commute, the walk to work, I stared up in wonder at the moon and the earth's shadow that crossed her face. Our shadow. There. It didn't matter if I captured the image; somebody else would. I could find it later, but my picture would remind me that I was there. I saw it, and it was beautiful.

08 Oct 18:11

Interracial and same-sex marriage parallels

by Nathan Yau

xkcd on Marriage

xkcd doing what xkcd does. Randall Munroe charts a brief timeline of interracial and same-sex marriage, through the lens of popular approval and population.

Tags: marriage, xkcd

06 Oct 13:00

Skeleton Twins

by Kristin

In The Skeleton Twins, Saturday Night Live alums Kristen Wiig and Bill Hader reunite for a stark and darkly funny look at love, life and family.

“When estranged twins Maggie and Milo (Bill Hader) feel they're at the end of their ropes, an unexpected reunion forces them to confront why their lives went so wrong. As the twins reconnect, they realize the key to fixing their lives may just lie in repairing their relationship.”

Luke Wilson rounded out the cast directed by Craig Johnson in this comedy drama, which premiered at the Sundance Film Festival on January 18, 2014. It won the Screenwriting Award: U.S. Dramatic at the festival, and despite the humor, the film was dramatic at the core, with adult content and issues.

Sitting in a darkened theater, with my brother at my side, I wondered how a decade could pass between twins, how so much could change and how so much could stay the same. We each brought our own histories to the film, our own stories, and viewed it in the context of our own lives. We both enjoyed it.

The Skeleton Twins is not a film for the weak of heart or those seeking a quick comedy fix. It isn’t Bridesmaids. It isn’t SNL. It’s a beautiful, funny and bittersweet tale of love.
07 Oct 13:00


by Kristin


1. an even distribution of weight enabling someone or something to remain upright and steady.
2. a condition in which different elements are equal or in the correct proportions.

A few years ago, I spent much of a month taking Bikram Yoga classes. Three or four times a week, I would spend 90 minutes running through the same 26 postures in a room heated to 104 degrees Fahrenheit with 40 percent humidity. Theoretically, a warm body is a flexible body and more open to reshaping through yoga, and environmental aspects of Bikram help flush away toxins and impurities.

In hindsight, Bikram was a very bad idea. Heat and humidity exacerbate multiple sclerosis. The class could make me sicker, but I did not know I had it at the time. I figured everyone felt dizzy after an hour and a half in a room so hot and moist.

I had never sweated so much in my life.

Over the course of the month, I tried different days, times and instructors to figure out what worked best for me. The classes were scripted but each instructor taught in his or her own style. Some teachers seemed harder, others more comfortable, some rather awkward, and I did not know what it was. Timing? Tone? The space in between?

More than the instructors, I found that my body reacted differently at different times of day. After work on a Wednesday, practically running from office to studio meant that I could not hold a pose to save my life. My heart raced. My mind jangled with the projects I had been working. I couldn’t balance a stick to save my life. Conversely, early on a Sunday morning, in a mostly empty room, all felt right with the world.

In the end, a Toe Stand meant the end of Bikram for me. One particular instructor thought I could and should push myself farther. When I didn't, he pushed me. He thought I held back and he might have been right. I could go farther. I have hypermobile joints. My body has trouble distinguishing between "good far" and "bad far" with joints popping out. I ended up tearing something in my left knee. It hurt for years as the lessons of Bikram lingered.

Bikram taught me more than 26 poses and to listen to my body over the voice of an instructor. Bikram showed me a little of how stress impacted my body. I needed to let go of the things that my made my heart race and mind jangle after work on a Wednesday. I might never master a Balancing Stick Pose but it was a lot easier Sunday morning.

Most of the early exercises, the standing exercises, focused on balance - Standing Head to Knee, Standing Bow Pose, Balancing Stick, etc. – and each were performed on both sides of the body. I soon discovered that my left side was far less stable than right.

I had never really thought of internal imbalance before. I think I had assumed that my own body was balanced in strength and weakness (as imbalanced as it was), but it wasn’t. It isn’t. I am right handed and left brained. Scans of my noggin show greater damage on the right lobe and a spinal tap sent signals racing up and down the right side. My driver’s license shows an uneven smile and one eye squinting more than the other. Everything is slightly off kilter.

Somehow, I need to work within my own limitations to find balance. We all do. Weaker left side, off kilter smile and squinty eye, work and life, attention, diligence and distance, caring and letting go, somewhere in the midst of all that, we will find a way to remain upright and steady.

At the very beginning of Bikram, the first time I went, the instructor emphasized that the first thing anyone needed to master. Before trying any of the standing poses, before balancing exercises or poses that might strengthen our spines, we needed to figure out how to stay in the room. Maybe we could all learn from that.
05 Oct 07:01

The "What I Did to Recover" List Goes On!

by Brad Hoefs

You might have thought I was not going to continue with the “What I Did to Recover” list, since it’s been a number of weeks since my last post.  (Life was too busy for the last couple of weeks!) But, we still have a lot of things we can add that you and I have done to “recover” from bipolar disorder. 


So, here are more things we can add to the list:

·      I accepted that I was not the enemy; seeing the disorder instead as the enemy named the “mood monster.”

·      I stopped focusing on my mistakes and instead chose to learn from them. And I began to focus on the next right decision.

·      I decided I was not going to be victimized by bipolar.  Nor was I going to have a daily pity party over it.

·      I decided to love and care for myself the same way that I loved and cared for my grandchild.

·      I stopped waiting for the medicines to do something “magical” (i.e. “change everything”) and started working my recovery by taking one little step at a time.

·      I decided that my past did not define me; nor does bipolar.

·      I stopped looking for the passion to live again; rather, I decided to simply live again and look for passion along the way.

·      I stopped comparing myself to others. Instead, I started to compare myself to the “old-self” and with the better self I was becoming.

The list is so long that we are working on a website that has little “memes” for each item on the list.  Please add to the list. I am keeping track of all of your responses and adding them to the list for the website along with your first name.

07 Oct 19:34





05 Oct 13:00

Early light

by Kristin

Rising early, I shower, dress and slip outside to walk alone in the dark. Unlike weekday mornings, I don't see people with dogs. No runners. Not yet. Closer to the Mall, I see a couple but even there the streets and the sidewalk feel empty.

Overnight rain and a low cloud ceiling made the sunrise less appealing. I realize that as I leave my condo but I am already out the door, so I keep going.

Those who know say that people should keep their weekday schedules through the weekend, especially those who struggle with fatigue. Besides, in the mornings, I feel best so I might as well take advantage of that. Walk. Train. Do something with my early waking hours, even if it means leaving the house at a half past five on a Saturday morning.

A few miles in, close to the Washington Monument, I realize the clouds are not solid. A lightening sky shows pink, light polluted clouds blurring fuzzily into a pale blue sky. Sunrise might be all right.

As I approach the Lincoln, I see a cluster of dark shapes on the stairs and my heart sinks just a little. Even if sunrise is spectacular, I will not capture it, not without a million other forms in the way, and I cannot edge in front of them, marring their shots with my bright orange sweater and red rain jacket. To be fair, any group of photographers out this morning is probably more serious than me, anyway.

Even closer, I see people sitting, not standing, and there is not a tripod in sight. Four military types run past me. Marines out for a run? They don't keep going; they join the group on the steps.

I take a seat far enough away that I might see something if the sun does peak through the clouds. (My hopes aren't high.) A man speaks to the group. I can't make out the words.

At seven, I hear first call, Reveille, from someplace close. Arlington National Cemetery? Fort Myer? Somewhere over the river.

The sun fails to penetrate the thick cover of clouds. I watch the sky anyway, and the group moves up in camo and backpacks, with flags and boots. All ages. Definitely military.

The man in charge hassles the group and those carrying flags. They should move faster, be at the front. They stop for a picture and he joked about his iPhone and the quality of photo they can expect. I get up and walk over to offer a shot of my own. Another girl offers an iPhone wide angle lens. Between us, we take the shot.

We talk, the man in charge and I. He gives me his email address and later I will send a picture. In the meantime, he tells me that the group has been moving all night, mostly former special ops. They do this all over the country. He gives me a card but I lose it and cannot figure out how to find more about this unique group.

Soon, they are gone. Me, too. It is a half past seven and I have more miles to walk and hours to give volunteering. The sunrise was singularly unspectacular but the walk with heavy camera was worth it.