Sue Katz: Consenting Adult

How Shingrix supports National Napping Day

I had the old shingles shot (Zostavax) a decade or so ago. But for the last couple of years I’ve been urged to get the new shot, Shingrix. I would’ve done so immediately, but it is never available. Plus, it is hideously expensive, even on Medicare. It seems that insufficient amounts of this vaccine are produced in fits and starts and if you don’t happen to be aware that it is available, you have to hope that the next round might include you.

I had the first of two Shingrix shots, at last, on Tuesday. I thought my Dr’s office was going to administer it, but I got a call from my Rx insurance saying I had to have it at Walgreens, and yes, they cover it. It took my pharmacist two days to carve out time to vaccinate me and it cost me $185. I think my insurance kicked in a dozen dollars.

I was warned about the side effects: sore arm at the shot site (that more or less faded after 5 days); a rash (yeah, I got a small rash a few days ago which has faded away); and exhaustion.

Which brings me to today: National Napping Day. Since receiving the shot, I have found that my regular dozy afternoon slump has turned into a three-hour nap-of-the-dead. About 2:30 or 3:00 I crawl to my bedroom, fall onto the bed in all my clothes, and three hours later I come awake after a blacked-out sojourn in Never-Never-Land. This is happening day after day after day. Yesterday I was out of the house at an event so I didn’t get my nap and, damn it, I was wiped.

Why is this shot so important? Because shingles (a kind of reactivation, usually in elders, of chickenpox) SUCKS! I was traveling with my cousin when she got shingles around her torso, a thick band of weeping raw sores that were viciously painful and persistent. I will never forget how she heroically endured this gruesome condition.

So I’m not complaining about the naps which have become part of my day. In fact, I’m proud to fit in with the other celebrants of National Napping Day. I would continue with this post, but I feel a duvet calling my name.

PS: Here’s some additional info about the reason we’re being encouraged to take the new shot.

In the U.S., Zostavax and Shingrix are FDA-approved vaccines to help prevent the occurrence of shingles. In studies, compared with placebo, Shingrix significantly reduced the risk of developing shingles by 90 to 97% in subjects 50 years and older. Merck’s Zostavax, compared to placebo, significantly reduced the risk of developing zoster by 69.8% in those 50 to 59 years old, and by 51% in subjects 60 and older overall. However, in patients 80 years and older, Zostavax was only 18% effective while Shingrix was 89.1% effective in preventing shingles in this older, at-risk, age group. There are no head-to-head studies.

Women in Black against the Occupation of Palestine is Still Happening

Women in Black (Tel Aviv) was formed in my flat in 1988, shortly after the Jerusalem women started the first group. We in Tel Aviv had been demonstrating weekly as Women in White on the steps of Tel Aviv City Hall, opposing the incursion into Lebanon. When the First Intifada (resistance) broke out, we changed the colors of our clothes and adopted the structure of the Jerusalem women, demonstrating every Friday at a main intersection.

The photo is of a joint demo of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv in 1898. Can you find me?

I was in charge of security in Tel Aviv, because the initial reaction of the Israeli men was absolutely crazed. They drove their cars up onto the traffic island where we protested in an attempt to run us down; they jumped out of their cars to grab our signs; and at the slightest sign of resistance, they became physically violent. They called us “Arab fuckers” and they screamed that we should get home and prepare Shabbat dinner for our husbands.

In honor of International Women’s Day, 927mag.com compiled these photos of Women in Black who persist in representing our demand for an end of the Occupation of Palestine.

 

Tears at the Dumpster

All my adult life I have feared that in my old age, when I couldn’t work, that I would be a "bag lady". I knew I would never have a husband or children to support me: that I was and would be on my own. Recently, I see the women with shopping carts piled with bottles and cans, and recall all my fears. However, I now realize that, in fact, I’m okay in my retirement. That I will be okay. It is hard to adjust to this idea: that I will be able to afford my rent for the next 15 years (or so?) that I have left.

I collect all my bottles and cans and keep them in bags in the back seat of my car. The other day I am coming out of my building’s garage and a slender figure is on tippy-toes using a tree branch to try – I suspect – to fish out cans from our dumpster.

I pull over at the end of the driveway and call to the person: “Are you looking for cans?” No reaction. After a couple of more tries I realize that they can’t hear me or perhaps understand me. So I jog to the dumpster and step into sight-line and see that yes, she is fishing for cans. She is wizened and dressed in piles of clothing and looks frozen. She is so emaciated that I cannot even guess at her age or race.

I run back and forth to my car four times. First, I get out a big plastic bag of bottles and cans; then I return for a paper bag full of cans that I had forgotten about. It isn’t enough. I run back to the car and get out some money and race back to give it to her. And then finally, I realize that she is wearing a kind of plastic fake-leather jacket and must be freezing, so I return to the car to get the lovely purple fleece that my friend Jaya bought for my birthday and which I keep in the car for the frequent times I’ve misjudged the weather, and I give it to her. She says, “Too much, too much.” She leaves the driveway and I get into my car. As I pull out, I see her going to the back of the building across the way to where they keep their dumpster.

I have solved nothing for her. I have solved nothing for the many women, men, and children out on the streets. I am choked up – even now days later as I write this – because I am only too aware that the only solution to social problems like poverty and homelessness are social solutions. Laws that protect us; institutions that serve us; safety nets that catch us – and the present regime is busy undoing all the shards of support that remain. We are all in for heart-breaks – some so much more than others.

I Wept At My First Bernie Rally

My protest partner Barry and I drove to Rindge, New Hampshire, where Bernie was speaking at Franklin Pierce University the day before the first Democratic primary. Because of an unanticipated light snowstorm, it took us two hours to get there. The campus was one big traffic jam, but the cops found us a convenient disability parking space. We were greeted by a young volunteer who, on seeing the button on my backpack that says “Ask me about my book,” asked me. She said she was an English Literature major and hoping to become a novelist. I said one of my books was a novel about a woman who at 84 falls in love with a dyke who is 79. Excitedly, the girl said, “I’m queer too!” What a sweet greeting.

Inside it was crammed with people, but the volunteers had put aside seats for elders and people with disabilities. We were two rows back from the podium. The first row was reserved for people enjoying the services of a sign language interpreter. There were swarms of press – microphones and cameras everywhere. C-Span broadcast it (you can catch Barry and me as they panned the crowd). Barry and I and an old guy sitting next to us were interviewed by Nightline . I explained why I think Bernie is the only candidate sure to beat tRump.

Later edit: A little part of the interview was broadcast on Nightline in the evening! Here it is. Bernie coverage starts at 2:00. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=npCS1FFTI6E&feature=youtu.be&t=149&fbclid=IwAR3gU0diSTTHO1FvcBmydloKXeE9pz7pi0Qh3dDNPDh_avvxhWPKUhWhSTc

Two women students were the first to speak. The first was herself hard of hearing from early childhood. She described the isolation she felt and how this campaign had embraced her and how life felt so much richer working for Bernie’s vision. She said that in 2016 she had been 19 and instead of using her first chance to vote, out of confusion she didn’t vote at all. She has spent her time since making up for that mistake.

The second student talked about growing up poor. She said her mother went to college at age 30 and was still paying off her student loans, just as this girl was accruing hers. She identified as LGBTQ.

Next was Nina Turner, a former Ohio State Senator and now a national co-chair of Bernie’s campaign. She is a remarkable speaker, skilled at call/response, and practiced in getting the crowd excited. Plus, she was rocking a fantastic animal-print floor-length dress. When she said that this may be the last chance in our lifetime to achieve the kind of country we want, I wept. It is certainly the last chance in my lifetime.

Nina was followed by the Sex in the City actor Cynthia Nixon, who also said she “identifies as LGBT.” She was quiet, even halting, as she explained her own journey. She said she voted for Hillary last time, not because she didn’t find Bernie’s policies exciting, but because people insisted that the middle-of-the-road was the path to beating tRump. When she said the name “Hillary,” the jubilant, animated crowd of students went dead silent. They didn’t boo or hiss. They were focused at the job in hand, and I found it quite moving. Cynthia introduced Bernie.

He came to the stage with his wife Jane who seems to stay on the campaign trail, but quickly leaves the limelight to him. He gave a speech I have seen on tv many times – but with such vigor and energy and conviction that one believes utterly in his sincerity and focus.

My takeaway from the day is that I am not doing enough and must do more. We cannot be lulled into paralysis by the fascistic wave overtaking our lives. We must fight the tendency to drown in a good novel – whether reading or writing one, or to overeat as we watch any of an infinite number of entertainments available on our every device. It’s now or never. Let’s kick each other into gear and stop this maniac by electing someone who is so consistent, so sure, so progressive that no mere bully can shake him from his beliefs. As Cynthia Nixon said, I’m all in for Bernie.

If You Don’t Ask, You Don’t Get: Appeal of a Traffic Accident

Herewith the story of my car accident, my punishment, my appeal, and the lesson to be learned.

I rear-ended another car some months ago. I was coming from a reading of my latest book, A Raisin in My Cleavage: short & shorter stories, to a large group of older lesbians in Roslindale. It’s not an area I know, so I went slowly around a hairpin turn from one street onto another, around a little urban park. Because it’s a blind U-turn, I couldn’t see that the car driving on the second street had stopped suddenly. The car only came into view as I came around the bend, so I steered hard to the left to avoid her. Although I was going under 10 miles per hour, my front bumper on the passenger side scraped the whole driver side of her car.

We pulled over, regretful but polite. First things first: we checked that each of us was okay. We took phone photos of all the relevant paperwork, the cars, the licenses. My car was more damaged than hers. We had pulled over in front of a barbershop and out came the owner. She was kind and helpful – said these accidents happen frequently in that place. We all agreed that situations like this were easiest when only women were involved.

I reported everything to my insurance and after a week or so they asked if there had been a witness. I googled until I found the barbershop and then rang up to find the owner. She was glad to call the insurance company for me. They judged me 100% guilty (as is generally the case in Massachusetts when someone rear-ends someone else) and when I went to see my agent, she said that I would lose points, lose my large discounts for years of good driving, and end up paying up to $800 more per year for my insurance.

There was an appeal process and I applied and I received a letter from the Massachusetts Division of Insurance, Board of Appeals giving me a hearing date for some months forward. I contacted the barber and she agreed to send me a witness statement. It was carefully handwritten and full of sincerity. Armed with that, a blown-up map showing the nature of the blind turn, and my own statement, I went to the appeal.

One woman served as judge. Another woman served as the representative of all the insurance companies. The judge was a total pro. She had a modulated voice that could calm a mosquito in heat. She was interested, patient, and gave each person time to say whatever they wanted to say. I watched as she adjudicated about 6 or 7 other appealers before me and was impressed indeed. For all of us, the stakes were high, but she maintained a reassuring transparent fairness.

When I had my turn, I told my story. After seeing the others, I realized that my own circumstances might not fit the criteria: it wasn’t night or bad weather. Once it was my turn, I answered her questions, giving her copies of the map with the impossible turn, the witness statement, and my own statement. When she asked if I had something to add, I said: “My father was a trucker for a while and took great pride in his driving record. He taught me how to drive in the 1960s and I have never had a moving violation or been at fault in an accident ever since. I would hate to betray my dad in a situation where, after going over it a million times in my head, I simply do not see what I could have done differently.”

A week later, I was driving on my least favorite highway at night in the rain when I was side-swiped by a pickup truck. That’s the bad news. The good news is that a state police car pulled up behind me when the other driver and I pulled to the side of the road to exchange paperwork. The other driver left, but I walked over to the state policeman to ask for a report – having seen the judge ask about such things while watching the appeals – and he gave me one indicating that the other driver was at fault. The bad news is that I got home rather bedraggled only to find the appeal results in the mailbox, but the good news is that I won the appeal.

If you don’t ask, you don’t get.

 

Book Review: The Gustav Sonata by Rose Tremain in 100 words

I could not put down this potent, compelling book. Two schoolboys with opposite personalities bond in a small town in Switzerland in the aftermath of WWII. Gustav is steady, poor, and devoted to Anton, a talented Jewish pianist. Gustav’s impoverished homelife is set against the warmth and plenty of Anton’s family. Throughout five decades, their relationship endures, adapts, and wrings the reader’s heart. Ultimately a love story, Tremain – an award-winning British author of prodigious skill – explores the choices individuals are forced to make during and after a genocidal war while struggling for a love that dares not speak its name.

Words I Hate: Job Creator

Words I Hate: Job Creator

For years I have railed against particularly deceptive, misleading, euphemistic words and so I’m going to start an occasional series of blogs dealing with these words.

JOB CREATOR
Tom Steyer, the multi-billionaire vanity candidate for president who built his wealth as a hedge fund manager, has assaulted us with a barrage of TV and radio ads. He brags: “I started a tiny investment business and, over 27 years, grew it successfully to 36 billion dollars.” His argument is that he is a superior capitalist pig to tRump. With no governmental experience whatsoever, he brags that as a “job creator,” he is capable of running the world. His campaign has spent $17 million on ads so far.

What does it mean to be a job creator? McDonalds and Walmart and other minimum wage companies – they’re all job creators. They’re also union haters, do not pay a living wage to their employees, and in most cases offer no benefits. I don’t know how many or what type of jobs this Steyer “created” – these hedge funders usually just buy, ransack, and then sell companies. But what he really means is that he managed to exploit the labor of enough people to make him so rich that he can attempt to spend his way into the position of president of the USA. As a “job creator” he wants to create that one additional job – for himself.

Don’t Get Burned by Niagara Falls

Our road trip took the three of us from Pittsburgh to Niagara Falls in late October, stopping overnight in each direction at Lake Chautauqua. About 50 miles from Niagara, a service station advertised that it provided tourist information for Niagara Falls – and that it was the last stop before Buffalo, NY. Of course we stopped.

As Jaya, Sandy, and I came in the door, the booth was set up so that everyone had to pass it. It featured piles of maps and brochures and leaflets and a jolly guy who was happy to talk to us about Niagara. All three of us love to chatter with strangers and this friendly chap was our match. Eventually he asked about our plans for the Falls and confided that he could secure us tickets for the best tour ever. It would include all parking fees at the various sites, all entrance fees, and a ride to four of the best views – altogether eight attractions. We would have a chance to spend a half hour at each stop, photographing and incredible views. It would take four hours and only cost $108 each.

“What about a senior discount?”

“Included it already,” he smiled.

“We’ll talk to you after we use the bathroom,” I said and off we went. I reminded my friends that there was no way I was going to stand around on my dysfunctional feet for half-hours at a time – and certainly not on such an extremely windy and chilly day. “Sounds like torture, not fun.” So we didn’t grab this bargain.

We got to the Falls and parked for $10. We never had to move the car. We went up to the main observation point and got our first free views of the Falls. Then we went on the exhilarating, amazing “Maid of the Mist” boat ride around the foot of the falls, dressed like everyone else in the pink plastic rain capes (with breast cancer ribbon designs on the back). We had befriended a guy at the info desk and he had given us big plastic bags and rubber bands for our shoes – we were the only ones on the Maid whose feet stayed dry. The wind was insane – so the mist was seriously whipping people around. And that was kinda wonderful. It cost us $20 each.

Afterwards we went on the Trolley (jump on / jump off) provided by the Niagara Falls State Park. It goes to all those eight attractions mentioned by the tour guy who had tried to sell us the tour. But it turned out that several of the attractions were already closed for the season and others were inaccessible due to road works. But the Trolley and its informative driver were fabulous – we got out at the premiere spot for viewing and photographing and then got back on later. The tickets cost $3 each.

So that’s $10 for parking, $60 for three tickets to the boat, $9 for three tickets to the Trolley. In total $79, and it was a full and exhausting day. If we had gone on the painful standing-around tour, it would’ve cost us $324.

How infuriating that this for-profit tour company passes itself off as a “tourist info” spot, even advertising on the highway and being placed immediately as one comes in the door of the last service stop. My feeling was that Niagara Falls is a State Park and therefore looked after us in an affordable and safe way. Don’t get burned – just get to the Park itself, preferably not, as staff told us, on the windiest day of the year.

 

He’s Just 4

It was a beautiful Fall day, so my friend and I got library passes to the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, MA, where we intended to explore the new extension.

But something was very amiss in the clogged roads and WAZE was struggling to find us a way to keep moving, as is its wont. The closer we got to Salem, the more gridlocked it became. Cars were searching out non-existent parking spaces, and every spare space – from official lots to peoples’ driveways – displayed hand-made signs with a $20 or $30 price – or more commonly a big sign saying FULL.

The streets were impassable with excited crowds. The town was bulging with pumpkins and alive with excitement. Tourist Trolleys promised tours of witches’ sites and costumed guides were squiring families to all the haunted houses. I did not know, because I am not a Halloween kinda girl, that every October weekend in Salem is a massive big deal, not the least the first weekend. There was no approaching the Museum and so we concocted a plan B.

We set off south down the Essex Coastal Scenic Byway along the coast. The weather was glorious, absolutely perfect. We went to several beaches, noting the offensive “Private Beach: Do Not Trespass” signs in the wealthier seaside towns. We discovered the Audubon nature preserve at Marblehead Neck, which was gorgeous. As we drove through Marblehead, we detoured down a narrow road between two bloated mansions, to catch the view of the scenic harbor where the boats were as abundant as the ghost hunters had been in Salem.

Before we got to the end of this little road which was about ½ block long to see the harbor, out popped a little blond boy from behind a mansion vanity wall. He was gesticulating and waving us away, a big scowl on his little pale face.

I stuck my head out of the window. “Are you trying to tell us to get out of here?”

“Yes,” he yelled, all puffed up and full of himself, “This is my grandmother’s house.” He continued to point down the road and shoo us, petulance and privilege swelling his features.

From behind the wall, a woman said to him, “It’s okay.” But he stood his ground.

I said to him, “When you get a chance, look up the word ‘entitled’ in the dictionary.”

And the disembodied voice of the woman responded, “He’s only four!”

My friend said to me, “And she has taught him already.”

I found it spookier than Salem could ever be.

Raise Hell: The Life & Times Of Molly Ivins - A Review in 100 words

Raise Hell: The Life & Times Of Molly Ivins

A Review in 100 words

Now here’s a documentary to see, indeed. Molly Ivins started her life of raising hell by resisting her rich authoritarian father. ‘I remember my dad and his friends sitting around fixing the price of oil.’ Later she said, “My teenage rebellion lasted 35 years.” Six feet tall and a devoted intellectual, her young years reading in her bedroom well prepared her to be a rebellious journalist who splintered glass ceilings and spoke truth to power. Her hilarious wit – unfortunately fueled by heavy drinking – and the confidence privileged kids inherit, combined to make her a sterling, popular syndicated journalist and author.