Out of hibernation

Is anybody still there? My, but I have neglected the poor blog. Sorry about that. It's been a rough few months. I've had the "paid-for-a-roof-on-an-unsellable-condo, ants-crawling-in-the-current-home's-kitchen, oh-my-God-I'm-still-uninsured" blues.

But now it's spring! Except for one dark day of snow in April (on which I had difficulty in forcing myself out of the bed, let alone the house), it's been fairly nice, at least by the standards of the Midwest. The husband and I have taken advantage of the weather by starting a vegetable garden. We were hesitant at first. We rent, and we go back and forth about whether we want to move this summer. Finally, though, we decided that there is always an excuse not to do it, and besides, even if we do move it won't be till August.

You may recall that last year at this time, we were still bandying about the idea of buying a farm. I have a confession to make about that. I was never quite as excited about the plant side of things as I was about animals. I am in love with the idea of owning farm animals. I want sheep and chickens and a goat. Maybe even a cow one day. I have read books about livestock, in particular sheep, with accounts of what to do if a sheep expells her uterus during birth (basically, push it back in) and illustrations of swinging a lamb over your head to expel birthing fluids if it's born not breathing, and I still want to experience sheep birth. (Which is particularly odd given that even reading about heartburn during human pregnancy makes me want to pop an extra birth control pill.)

Plants, though? I don't know. They just didn't seem that interesting. They just, like, sprout and then... I don't know, grow some more, right? So I'm a little surprised to say that I have been totally loving it. We started some seedlings inside, along with some garlic and peas that we started in containers outside. The husband has done most of the work of getting the beds ready, and I am in charge of the compost pile. I never thought I could love a pile of rotting vegetable matter quite so much. I still can't bring myself to go near the Spider Corners of our basement and centipedes still make me scream, but I love poking the pile and watching the spiders and beetles and worms scatter. The neighbors probably think I'm insane. They may have a point.

I was not an outdoorsy kind of child. I did not have outdoor chores or play outdoor games. I certainly did not dig in the dirt for fun. But I kind of wish that at some point I had been forced to do some dirt-digging. Maybe I would have found my green thumb sooner.

Again with the insurance?

So much of the insurance-getting process has felt like the college application process. The interminable form with "optional" essay portions, the sense that one's destiny is being handed over to nameless, faceless, soul-less beasts, and finally the constant checking of the mail.

Two days ago, I got my envelope from insurance company #2. And just as if it were from a college, I looked at it, and could tell by the fact that it was a thin letter envelope, and not a thick 9x12 one, that the news wasn't good. People, they rejected me. What's worse, they rejected me based on incorrect information. They said that I have "a history of removal of left breast fibroadenoma and no followup tests". Now come on, soul-less beasts, info about my follow-up tests is freely available on the interweb. (Also, soul-less beasts, it's 'follow-up', not 'followup'; when providing your reasons for ruining someone's dreams of an affordable Pap smear, don't be afraid to crack open a dictionary, mmm-kay?)

I have two favorite parts of the letter, other than the spelling error. One is the phrase "history of removal of left breast fibroadenoma", like I drop into the surgeon's office every few months and get someone to slice open my left boob and hunt up some lumps. Second is this sentence: "As you may already be aware, we are unable to offer you coverage." They didn't call me about this, and in fact, refuse to discuss it over the phone (even to tell me what, specifically, the doctor's office needs to provide to refute this). My status online didn't change. There is no way that I would have known, unless of course, they mean that clearly I am too disease-ridden to expect any sane company to insure me.

On what is most likely a related note, I had a dream the night before last in which I was trying to plan a storytime on death and dying, but was getting frustrated because I couldn't find the fun ones. I'm sure there's an opportunity for analysis there, but without insurance, how will I ever find out?

Pick myself up, dust myself off...

After all the analysis, all the tearing of hair, all the frustration, I finally got accepted by the insurance company that I chose – but, get this, I screwed it up. I chose a decent plan with a major company. I knew from the way that their doctor search engine was set up that different plans had different networks. But I had searched a few times, and I did a dumb thing: I assumed. I know that to assume makes an ass out of me (I’ll leave you out of this), but I did it. I assumed that since my other searches had found two hospitals in CollegeTown in the plans, there would be at least one in the plan I ended up with.

In my defense, the assuming happened on a sub-conscious level. It wasn’t until I got the policy in the mail and looked at the brochure of network hospitals that my stomach dropped out and I realized that I had never looked up this specific plan’s network. Regardless, though, I had to start over again. There are a few doctors in the network here, but no hospital and no gynecologists. Out-of-network visits have a much higher deductible and only 50% coverage after the deductible. After I got done crying, I would occasionally wail to the husband “I am soooo stupid!” until he finally got tired of it, pointed out that I kept pointing out that the whole thing is slanted in favor of the companies, and asked, “Do you really think you’re that much smarter than everyone else?” To which I say: well, no, not exactly, except that yes, kind of. It’s not really that I thought I was smarter; it’s that I worked so hard on it. Working part-time left me able to focus a great deal of time and attention on this decision. It’s sort of pathetic that after all that I still screwed it up.

I’m trying to stop thinking that way though. I am focusing on being angry again. Fortunately, I have 30 days to cancel the plan without charges, as long as I don’t make any claims. I’m using that to get reinsured. I picked a different company, filled out another app, and this time got a call from the company minutes after clicking the “Submit to our will” button. (They only write the first word; the rest is implied.) The very nice woman who called transferred me to a surly woman in underwriting, who tried to give me fibrocystic breast disorder in my computer file, and if I had it in the file, I may as well have it in my boobs. Other than that though, things seemed to go smoothly, though I did get that question about whether there is a lump in my breast again. I am hoping to hear back soon, and with luck, I’ll be properly insured by next week. Cross your fingers that I stay healthy and unharmed between now and then.

I work hard(?) for the money

I have gotten completely spoiled by my part-time job. Generally speaking, I work 4 5-hour shifts each week. Often, at least one of those shifts is worked from home. This is awesome, and I know it. If I didn’t know it before, I do after yesterday. Yesterday, I worked a full day – 7 hours, 45 minutes. That is a whole fifteen minutes longer than a full day at my last job. Big whoop, right? But it damn near wiped me out.

I started off the day with storytime. Wednesday is my big storytime day. First comes Toddler Time. This went enormously well. The toddler group has finally started to blossom into something I can work with and be happy about. During the fall session, I never got more than 4 toddlers and their caregivers, which made it very difficult to get the kids to come out of their shells. Yesterday, I had 11 toddlers. Everybody was happy, and they knew it, and their faces surely showed it. They all danced during the shaker egg songs. They all colored during coloring time. Best of all, they all listened to the stories. Call me crazy, but Toddler Time was, by far, the highlight of both my previous jobs. The lack of toddler enthusiasm at SmallTown Library was seeping away my job satisfaction, so I am extremely psyched to see the crowd grow.

Immediately after the toddlers come the preschoolers. This went well, except for one child who, during the Hello Song, said, “Okay, okay, I get it. Let’s just do the story now.” Which, honestly, is kind of funny, and is also how I sometimes feel about the Hello Song, but this is the second week in a row that he has said it, so I had to tell him to please be polite. (A wrinkled brow, a shake of the head, and a “Please be polite,” are the equivalent, when I am in 'Miss Rachel' mode, of “Shut the hell up right now.” I would tell you what I do when I want to say "No, really, shut the hell up. Right. Now." but so far things have never gone that far. )

Once storytime was done and the craft table was clean, I had a few hours to prepare for a Gross Out program for school-age kids. There were a few scary moments when I thought that the slime recipe (which I have used before) wasn’t working, which would have served me right for not testing it sooner. I finally did get it to work, but then there were a few scarier moments when I realized that I didn’t have enough glue for all the children to make slime. This turned okay when I realized that it would be less messy for us to make one big batch together anyway.

Only six kids came to the program, but they had just gotten out of school and some of them had been served cupcakes at the end of the school day. They were good-natured though, and excited to make slime and talk about poop. We also made a film canister explode using Alka-Seltzer and water, as a slightly scientific illustration of what would happen to us if we didn’t burp or fart. Good times.

And that was my day. Now, three programs is more than average for one day, and school-age programs always wipe me out, but yesterday was ridiculous. I am still in my 20s. I have no children at home. I eat healthy foods. There is no reason for me to seriously consider going to bed at 7:30. The only conclusion to draw is that I am totally, completely spoiled by my five-hour days. I have never felt so lucky in my life.

In which I fight the urge to quote "My Humps"

I am not going to write about how freaking cold it is, not because I don’t think it’s noteworthy, but because the only sentiments I’m capable of are “Duuuuuuude! It is SOOOO COLD! Oh my god! SOOOOOOO COLD!” The descriptive portion of my brain has been closed due to extreme conditions. I hope you understand.

Instead of inarticulate moaning about the weather, I will bring you further tales of insurance skeeziness. First, some history. I’ll warn you now, if you don’t like lady parts, avert your eyes. Still there? Then here goes.

I have one ongoing medical problem, if you can call it that. When I was 17, I found a lump in my breast. I went to the doctor who said it was probably a fibroadenoma, which is totally harmless, but that it should be removed. It was removed, biopsied, found to be a fibroadenoma and thus totally benign. End of story.

Except that about three years ago, I found another one. I went back to the doctor (a different doctor, who I must say, thought it was weird that the first doctor had me get the first fibroadenoma removed). She had me get an ultrasound, then another in six months, and another six months after that. No change, so no problem.

Cut to this month, when I applied for individual health insurance. Yesterday, I got a call from the company saying that there was “missing information”. They then proceeded to ask me, in about 10 different ways, “Hey, what’s up with your boobs?” Specifically, I was asked at least twice, though in different ways, whether I had actually been told I needed no ongoing treatment. I was asked whether I had ever been biopsied. I had to explain the situation twice. And finally, I was asked the question that scares me: “Do you currently have a lump in your breast?” It isn’t the lump that’s scary. Quite the contrary, it’s the fact that I know the lump is harmless, but that the only answer to that question is yes, and I have no idea what the implications to that are, premium-wise.

The really frustrating thing is that I did not share one thing with the woman on the phone that I hadn’t already written on the application. The scary question was there in black and white, and I already answered it with the scary true answer. And, as I shared with you before, they have access to a document with my entire medical history, which I'm sure contains the same information in convenient doctor-speak.

It upsets me because I think it’s pretty clear they were hoping to catch me. I am relatively well-spoken, completely understand the scope of my condition, and am less scared of the insurance company and its minions than pissed off by them. But if I weren’t as well-spoken, or had a doctor who didn’t explain things well, or didn’t react to anything out of the ordinary by reading every article ever posted to the internet about it, I might have said something, on the record, that could have been used against me. I get that they want to make sure that I don’t have cancer. (Because clearly, a cancer patient doesn’t deserve insurance. Helping people who need it is no way to run a business.) But it seems to me that they also want to make sure that they don't miss an opportunity to squeeze extra money out of me every month.

Maybe I'm getting paranoid. Maybe the cold is getting to me. Maybe it's the effort not to insert "lovely" or "lady" (or both!) in front of the many tempting occurrences of "lump" in this post. But I feel more and more like I'm fighting a losing battle here. It's enough to make a girl move her family to Canada.

Medicate Me

Yesterday I applied for health insurance. Last semester, I was covered under the plan through the husband’s school. It is a decent plan, and for him, it is an excellent option, but as the wife of a grad student, I was paying quite a bit more money than makes sense. Frankly, though, it didn’t occur to me that I could apply for my own insurance until a couple of months ago. The husband and I have always had the same insurance plan, either because only one of us had coverage through a job, or because one of us had a plan that was clearly better. But even a quick glance at premiums showed that I could be paying a lot less.

Me being a researchy kind of nerd, I did some intense googling, browsed library shelves, and even used library databases to find all of the information about shopping for health insurance that I could. While this did little to help me find a plan, it did leave me pretty freaking pissed off. Did you know that you have a file, held at a single agency called MIB, that is basically like your credit report, only about your health? And that if a health insurance company ever rejects you, or chooses to give you a higher premium than originally quoted, that fact is noted on your record and will stay there forever, impacting all future decisions that health insurance companies will make about you? (You’re entitled to one free copy a year, by the way, which I am totally getting, unless I forget, which is, of course, what they want to have happen. The bastards.)

So now I’m worried. One of the books talked about some companies assigning higher premiums based on seemingly small problems such as seasonal allergies. It’s been a while since I watched Michael Moore’s Sicko, but I remember that it featured a woman who, after being diagnosed with some sort of problem with her reproductive system, was retrospectively kicked off her plan for not declaring that she had went to the doctor about a yeast infection several years back. I don’t have any major medical problems, and none at all that require ongoing treatment, so I would be surprised if I was rejected outright. But I am worried, perhaps to a paranoid degree, that I’m going to get my premium bumped up above the quoted rate, and it’s going to be reflected in my permanent record just like in high school, only unlike in high school, someone other than the principal actually cares.

Not to mention the fact that, on principle, I hate the idea of shopping for what should be a basic right. I hate that I’m gambling with deductibles and premiums and maximum out-of-pocket expenses, balancing the slow but constant money leak of premiums against the potential giant money explosion of an accident or serious illness. And it’s all skewed in favor of the insurance companies.

All of this is to say that I’m very stressed out right now, and if you see me twitching or exhibiting other odd behaviors, please – PLEASE! – don’t call a doctor. At least not until I get my application results

Naughty vegetables

Generally speaking, I think I run a fairly family-friendly blog. Sure, I use the occasional curse word, but in general I keep things pretty PG.

Which is why I feel ever so slightly dirty about what I'm about to share with you. If this were to get into the hands of the Fox News Corporation, we would soon be hearing about the stunning expose about the depravity to be found at the local farmer's market. Parents, you may want to cover your children's eyes.




We have to forgive the poor carrot. Times are tough. What's a carrot to do with the rent to pay? So he comes to the market, props himself against a wall, and offers to give someone a little company through the night.



But, oh, carrot, there's no need to be crude.

By the way, one of the many reasons I love my husband is that he not only remembered to save this carrot for the two weeks it took for me to get motivated to pull out the camera, he also took the camera away from me and did the photo shoot himself. And I must say, he did a stellar job, particularly since the camera is dying a slow painful death.



Note the bookshelf behind the carrot. It's obscured, but there's some Beowulf there. Because when the husband is not chronicling the depravity of the farmer's market, he likes to rock it Old English style.