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By Jess, August 31, 2009 10:41 am

I’ve read that moving is the third traumatic thing after death and divorce that one experiences in life.  In the next 31 days, I’ll be moving twice… well, presumably.  I actually haven’t found a place to live for October.

I’ve moved many times before: from New York to California with my parents; from California to DC for college; from DC to London for study abroad; and from London back to DC to start my Senior year.  But I’ve never moved with such an amorphous future in front of me.  Perhaps a blank slate is a good thing for a change?

More on this later.  For now, I’m off to caffeinate, work from home, and squeeze in some laundry and packing in between.

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By Jess, August 18, 2009 12:23 am

Just under two years ago, I left my beloved Georgetown to spend a year studying at the London School of Economics.  I immersed myself in local culture whenever I could, drinking tea instead of coffee and hitting the pub for the conclusion of any activity whatsoever.  But during my nine months in Britain,  I also got to try something most temporary residents don’t get to experience: the full range of the British health care system.

Ambulances, hospitals, and doctors visits.  Like a dinner buffet, I  sampled the full offerings of the National Health Service.  At times, I felt like an anonymous patient, a product on an assembly line.  I’d show up for my appointment, my name would appear on a scrolling ticker, and I’d head into Exam Room #3.  Eight minutes later, I’d emerge with some sort of prescription having convinced the doctor that “inhaling steam and menthol” would not cure my 3-week cold.  I was a little resentful, but it was difficult to hold the grudge when my prescription cost only $7.

A few months later, I revisited the NHS.  After eating a Salmonella-laced kebab in Amsterdam and a healthy incubation period of a week or so, I… exhibited symptoms of illness.  I toughed it out for a few days, ceased eating and drinking, and contemplated my own death in a foreign country (dramatic, I know).  I visited the NHS website and read through the FAQs: “How do I know if I need to visit the emergency room?  Still not sure?  Call this number.”  I called the number.  I went to the emergency room.

I prepared myself for hours of waiting and came prepared with necessary distractions: a book, my Ipod, my lap top, and a toothbrush.   But they went to waste.  I was seen almost immediately and swept away to a back room where I was attended to by a young Irish doctor whom, in my delirium, I immediately developed a crush on.  Without the hoopla of insurance paperwork, they took my blood right away and even came back for a second test.  In two hours, I was done and cabbing my way back home feeling assured that I would live for a bit longer.

I had some negative experiences with health care in Britain, but on the whole, I am so thankful for the care I received when I needed it most (I won’t even touch on the ambulance incident).  The anxiety of “how will I pay” never entered my mind.  This beats the fear that resonates in so many Americans when they consider their own health care, or lack thereof.

Britain’s NHS isn’t perfect, but with all it’s flaws, it’s a better service than offered in the U.S. (of course, with the option of private).  Sarah Lyall expresses my sentiment more completely in her article from The New York Times “Health Care in Britain: Expat Goes for a Checkup.”

To opponents of forms of socialized health care, I’ll say this: I’ve never met a poor (or moderately poor) Libertarian.

Further interesting reading on health care: “Health Care’s Generation Gap” by Richard Dooling.

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By Jess, August 14, 2009 4:24 pm

At age nine, I was a painfully shy tomboy who, despite fifth grade level test scores, was deemed socially unfit to skip the fourth grade at my new school in California.  To overcome my social awkwardness, I came up with a plan: discover what was cool to these California kids.  By then becoming an expert on said cool subject, I could be cool too.  To be clear, I wasn’t starting from scratch.  In New York I sat at the back of the bus with the older kids, and I was never the straggler in getting picked for sports teams; I did alright for myself.  But this was a new place, and I knew my swagger would take a while to resurface.

It did take some time that first year, but I found a place at my new school.  I had friends to spend recess with each day, and I did well in my classes.  I was cool enough.  Then in the fifth grade, I discovered skateboarding.

The boys in class brought in skate magazines of all kinds.  Between class and during recess, they’d pore over obscenity-filled Thrasher, Skateboarding, and king of them all, Transworld Skateboarding; they’d obsess over CCS catalogs flipping through pages of shoes, decks, and wheels until the pages disintegrated.  Meanwhile, I’d peer over their shoulders plotting my ascent to greater heights of cool.

I soon asked my parents for a skateboard of my own.  They took me to K-Mart where I bought the crappiest skateboard known to man.  Zero concave, slow bearings, and thuddy wheels.  But hey, no one said attaining cool would be easy.  I wore my Nike sneakers and tore them to shreds learning to ollie.  My mom bought me skate mags at the grocery store, and I studied their pages with intense concentration.  For those unfamiliar with skate literature, Transworld Skateboarding is like the Vogue of skate magazines.  It’s comprised of forty percent ads and sixty percent content, but both are equally important.  Through my Transworld education, I soon knew which skaters rode for what teams, who was Pro and who was Am.  I could identify any pair of skate shoes walking down the street.  At the ripe age of eleven, I could even distinguish the skaters whose daring stunts were propelled by drugs.  I think I shocked the boys with my with encyclopedic knowledge of skateboarding.  “What kind of deck do you have?”  “Alien Workshop,” I’d answer proudly.  (I got a new board after I learned to ollie).

I’ve transitioned to riding a longboard now.  It’s the Cadillac of skateboards, a smooth luxurious ride for old people.  I don’t really get a chance to cruise around very often.  So instead, I find myself poking around the internet for scraps related to skateboarding in news or art or music.

Today I stumbled upon a post by Bret Anthony Johnston in The New York Times “Happy Days” blog.  The NYT website gives a nice little background on “Happy Days”, subtitled “The Pursuit of What Matters in Troubled Times.”:

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By Jess, August 10, 2009 12:35 am

Here’s some good ol’ Americana to start off the week.

Interestingly, Old Crow Medicine Show actually shares the songwriting credits for “Wagon Wheel” with Bob Dylan. O.C.M.S leader Ketch Secor wrote the song after hearing Dylan mumble a melody, which he then completed, in one of many recordings in his Bob Dylan collection.

The weekend has been a good one. After two weeks off, I made a triumphant return to Patagonia. I was surrounded by glorious new fall product and, more importantly, glorious co-workers who make working on a Saturday enjoyable.

I ventured to the Volta public pool, a bizarre place where fit 18-25 year-old’s outnumber children and foreigners outnumber Americans. A public pool! Only in Georgetown…

Finally, I took a trip down memory lane via Nintendo64 with classics like Goldeneye and Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater. I also played Wii Sports and my arms are pathetically fatigued, so I must retire. Happy Monday!

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By Jess, August 8, 2009 1:03 am

Last night a mouse scurried across the floor of my room. This afternoon hot water was gushing uncontrollably from the bathtub faucet. Tonight my house has no running water (UPDATE: partially fixed).

As you can see, things keep looking up.

That was sarcasm.

In my last post, I claimed to avoid soliciting pity in my posts. It might seem like I’m retreating from my words, but I’m just trying to be honest and accurate.

Is it all worth it? I hope so. I am head over heels in love with work but have consciously avoided discussing what I do on the blog, because I fear that it will limit other opportunities should I have to put my dreams on hold. Will someone hire me to do X if they know I’d rather do Y? In this economy, I’m not so sure. The point is, I’ve found that thing that makes me excited to wake up everyday, and I can’t just let it go for a little bit of security and health insurance. That’s why I endure the mice, the house problems, and not knowing what my life will look like in a month from now.

I still dream of having my own crappy apartment, my own two-year contract, and a normal weekend. I’d prefer to have some health insurance. But right now, I’m living on good friends, free books, love of talk radio, and lots of rice. Live simply! Or so my t-shirt says…

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By Jess, August 6, 2009 11:53 pm

Gitnerblog has suffered lately from a lack of entries due to two main reasons.

First, I comment on news stories, albeit briefly, on Twitter. These stories almost always reveal my political or social leanings, and I tend to avoid disclosing these on the blog. Second, I make a concerted effort not to solicit pity from readers. Regardless of what’s going on with me, I’ll only write about certain things.

Number two will continue to be enforced. But in an effort to increase blog posts, I will slowly begin to comment on news, music, culture, and more in addition to the usual Gitnerblog topic: me.

That’s all folks. Thanks for reading!

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By Jess,

When a friend invited me to her house in New Jersey for a weekend trip, I accepted without much thought. I needed a break from my 60-hour work week, and New Jersey was the excuse I needed. But who knew that the Garden State would turn out to be my summer paradise?

I’m just as surprised as you are. I’ve driven through New Jersey a dozen times or more but have never noticed anything worth stopping for on the Turnpike. It’s not surprising considering my New Jersey knowledge consisted of the following:

1. New Jersey music obsessions include Bon Jovi.
2. It’s Guido central. See “My New Haircut.”
3. There is a disproportionate amount of Georgetown students from New Jersey.
4. New York is better.

And the list goes on. Still, the allure of a break from DC life was stronger than my half-joking prejudices.

Being far from home and family, I am easily won over by any situation involving a.) family togetherness or b.) motherly love, so spending time with not one but TWO Italian families was a micro paradise. I was showered with love and attention from heavily accented and heavily tanned women while their own children, my friends, looked on. Is it strange that this is part of what made my vacation great?

I also adored the beach. I grew up in Northern California where the beaches are plentiful but hard to access. Drive over a mountain to a cliff, find parking, descend cliff via shoddy stairs, sheepishly remove sweatshirt, and boldly enter frigid waters. When we went to the beaches of the Jersey Shore, we drove on FLAT terrain, pulled into a parking lot, and walked on FLAT ground to the sand only seconds away. My preference for the East Coast just keeps growing…

The nearby Seaside Heights boardwalk was a scene straight from the 1980s. The signs, the colors, and sometimes even the fashion. Everyone, young and old, had tattoos. And more importantly, everyone had a pack of cigarettes next to their SPF 4 sun tan lotion. I had my SPF 50 ready to go.

I’m back from Jersey now with a new appreciation for the so-called Armpit of America. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” I didn’t get a tattoo, but I got a decent tan, smoked a cigar, and hung out with Italian Americans. That’s a great vacation, even if it was only a weekend.

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By Jess, August 3, 2009 8:55 am

In the last two weeks, I turned 22 (gasp) and traveled to worlds unknown: Georgia and New Jersey.  Hence, lack of blog post and treacherous deceit in my previous post.

I’ll be back in the game soon.  Gitner, out.

For your random enjoyment…