Last week, I got to perform that most dreaded of civic responsibilities: jury duty. I say "dreaded", and when people expressed excessive amounts of sympathy, I smiled and nodded and didn't exactly disagree. But honestly? When I saw the envelope in the pile of mail, I was downright excited. They even sent me a notice several months in advance asking when I'd like to serve, and then they accommodated me. My doctor is barely willing to do that.
In the days leading up to my time at the courthouse, though, I started to get less sure. As I pointed out to the husband, the whole concept of a jury of your peers sounds great until you consider the unfortunate reality that is your peers. You know those people? The annoying people who ignore the traffic rules you hold most dear, never turn their cell phones off before the movie, and help keep Fox News on the air? Those are your peers. Should you find yourself in legal trouble, there is a good chance they will decide your fate. It's a bit worrying, really. So on my first day, I was still excited, but a little bit wary.
By 9:30 on the first day, I understood the actual reason that some people dread jury duty. It's not necessarily because of the part where you serve on a jury; it could be the part where you wait around for hours in a freezing cold room only to be told that you don't have to serve on a jury today. I couldn't even bring my current knitting project, because it is on skinny, pointy, metal needles and would render me a threat. On Day 2, I finished the book that I was in the middle of, and started my back-up, only to find that I didn't actually want to read a whole book's worth of Michael Chabon's reflections on manhood. (Perhaps to some of you this conclusion would be obvious, but I actually enjoyed it for about 50 pages. I like Michael Chabon; I just don't want to hang out with his family for 300 pages.) This left me bookless. Bookless! If I have one piece of advice for anyone who might be headed for their own stint in jury duty, it's this: don't let yourself be caught bookless (or entertainment-less, if you're not into the whole "books for pleasure" thing). They may provide you with magazines, but trust me, they suck. Perhaps they put out good ones, but if so, they get stolen immediately. It would be a sad irony to be brought before a jury for stealing the jury duty magazines, so just be on the safe side and pack as though you were going on a trans-Atlantic flight.
On the first day, there was an orientation, where we got to watch a video of a judge standing in the same room we were sitting in and giving a presentation about what to expect. The projected image of the light switch was just a few inches below the actual light switch. It was almost as though they wanted us to think she was a hologram, but weren't willing to invest the time and money into completing the illusion. Anyway, a little while after that, they called a bunch of numbers, and since my number wasn't called I got to go home.
That's pretty much how it went. Someone would call a bunch of numbers. I was #102, so the anticipation would build as I waited to hear if I would be called. I was called twice. The first time, I was part of a large jury pool, but even though a lot of people got dismissed for reasons I couldn't see, my number never came up, and I went home. (Once you're in the jury pool, they call twelve numbers. After the judge goes through some basic questions, the lawyers get to ask questions and dismiss people for undisclosed reasons. As jurors get dismissed, new ones are called to replace them.) The second time, I wasn't part of the initial twelve, but when one was dismissed, I got called to replace her. So I got to be a juror.
And here's the cool part: as a juror, I freed a man! It was a traffic case - basically the person was accused of not pulling over when a cop was signalling to do so. And while there is a pretty decent chance the person actually did it, it was not proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. And ultimately, that's what I want to share. I had my doubts when we were put into recess in the jury room. You're not supposed to deliberate until the trial is over, but people started to ignore that and then say that they hadn't been told. People talked about matters that bordered on the political, and they clearly didn't share or respect some of my opinions. Some of them were just people I didn't really like. But once we were in there actually deliberating, it's like we all snapped to attention. If someone started to speculate about things that were off-topic, someone else would remind them, and they'd stop. Everyone genuinely wanted to be a fair and unbiased juror. It was actually kind of beautiful.
So that's it. Jury duty = not so bad. If my job didn't pay me for my jury duty, I might have a slightly different opinion, but as it stands, I would still be kind of excited if I got another summons in the mail. If it does happen, this time I'll be equipped with plenty of books and a little more faith in the power of peers.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
TIBDIOB #1: I Killed the Chicken
This is part 1 of a potential series: TIBDIOB, or Things I've Been Doing Instead of Blogging. I'm going somewhat chronologically here. Today's topic actually occurred two weeks before Thanksgiving.
So, I've talked before about my proposed Beautiful Life. For those of you not following along at home, my Beautiful Life would consist of a homestead farm filled with various farm animals, particularly sheep and other fiber animals, but also chickens. The husband and I feel perfectly capable of taking care of laying chickens. Chickens, in general, are far less demanding than dogs, and Beckett seems to be doing okay. We were less sure of our ability to raise meat chickens. After all, Beckett is basically our son, and we wouldn't even think of eating him. Besides, as of yet, we have not found any recipes for Fox Terrier au Vin.
But we are meat-eaters, and we both feel very strongly about our decision to be conscientious carnivores. We only eat meat raised by farmers we know and trust, which basically means that outside of our home, we are functionally vegetarians. We have thought a lot about whether we would eventually be able to go to the next level and raise (and thus, kill) our own meat once we reach our Beautiful Life. So when our local co-op offered a chicken processing class at a member's house, we were pathetically - some might say bizarrely - excited.
The class was about the whole process of raising meat chickens. In September, we met the chicks. In October, we met the chickens. And then, in November, we killed them. I won't go into the details of the whole process. I will say that as I watched our instructor do the first bird, I wasn't completely sure I'd be able to do any of it. The whole thing was set up in his yard. In Illinois at least, if you live in a town where you can raise certain livestock within town limits, you can also butcher the animals, as long as you aren't selling them or doing enough to qualify as an agricultural enterprise. (That's an oversimplification of the rules, so don't go processing any chickens without checking your local ordinances, okay?) He had it set up as a four-step process, with a station for each step, and of course, with step 1 being the drawing of the knife. I ended up doing every step at least once, with varying degrees of success.
It wasn't what I'd call a fun time. It was hard, emotionally and physically. But I felt that if I couldn't handle it, I was going to have to reconsider my stance as a meat-eater. Eating other creatures means enacting violence against them, indirectly at least. When we were buying our meat shrink-wrapped in the grocery store, we didn't think about that too much. I'm not going to go into the politics or ethics or morals behind the decisions that the husband and I have made about food. I'll just say that whether or not we end up raising our own meat birds, we do know now that we would be capable of doing so.
I'm going to close with a warning. Kids, be careful what you read. If you had told me when I picked up Michael Pollan's Omnivore's Dilemma or Barbara Kingsolver's Animal Vegetable Miracle that I'd end up holding a freshly killed chicken by the feet, I'd have told you that you were crazy. Don't even try to tell me that books can't change lives. The husband and I have chicken blood on our hands (metaphorically, at this point), and little but books to blame.
So, I've talked before about my proposed Beautiful Life. For those of you not following along at home, my Beautiful Life would consist of a homestead farm filled with various farm animals, particularly sheep and other fiber animals, but also chickens. The husband and I feel perfectly capable of taking care of laying chickens. Chickens, in general, are far less demanding than dogs, and Beckett seems to be doing okay. We were less sure of our ability to raise meat chickens. After all, Beckett is basically our son, and we wouldn't even think of eating him. Besides, as of yet, we have not found any recipes for Fox Terrier au Vin.
But we are meat-eaters, and we both feel very strongly about our decision to be conscientious carnivores. We only eat meat raised by farmers we know and trust, which basically means that outside of our home, we are functionally vegetarians. We have thought a lot about whether we would eventually be able to go to the next level and raise (and thus, kill) our own meat once we reach our Beautiful Life. So when our local co-op offered a chicken processing class at a member's house, we were pathetically - some might say bizarrely - excited.
The class was about the whole process of raising meat chickens. In September, we met the chicks. In October, we met the chickens. And then, in November, we killed them. I won't go into the details of the whole process. I will say that as I watched our instructor do the first bird, I wasn't completely sure I'd be able to do any of it. The whole thing was set up in his yard. In Illinois at least, if you live in a town where you can raise certain livestock within town limits, you can also butcher the animals, as long as you aren't selling them or doing enough to qualify as an agricultural enterprise. (That's an oversimplification of the rules, so don't go processing any chickens without checking your local ordinances, okay?) He had it set up as a four-step process, with a station for each step, and of course, with step 1 being the drawing of the knife. I ended up doing every step at least once, with varying degrees of success.
It wasn't what I'd call a fun time. It was hard, emotionally and physically. But I felt that if I couldn't handle it, I was going to have to reconsider my stance as a meat-eater. Eating other creatures means enacting violence against them, indirectly at least. When we were buying our meat shrink-wrapped in the grocery store, we didn't think about that too much. I'm not going to go into the politics or ethics or morals behind the decisions that the husband and I have made about food. I'll just say that whether or not we end up raising our own meat birds, we do know now that we would be capable of doing so.
I'm going to close with a warning. Kids, be careful what you read. If you had told me when I picked up Michael Pollan's Omnivore's Dilemma or Barbara Kingsolver's Animal Vegetable Miracle that I'd end up holding a freshly killed chicken by the feet, I'd have told you that you were crazy. Don't even try to tell me that books can't change lives. The husband and I have chicken blood on our hands (metaphorically, at this point), and little but books to blame.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
The Case of the Mustachioed Fireman
Occasionally in my role as a children's librarian, I have the opportunity to contemplate some of life's deep questions. Recently, I had one of those opportunities. While preparing for a firefighter storytime, this question came to me: why are there so many male firefighters with mustaches in children's literature? I assure you that nearly every children's book featuring human firefighters has at least one guy with a mustache but no beard. (Oddly, most grown-up books featuring firefighters features a shirtless man on the cover.) I could leave it to you to find proof of this, but what am I here for if not to save you from needless internet browsing?
First up, a characteristic example.
Often, the mustachioed fireman gets to drive the firetruck. Occasionally, he also gets to wield the axe with which to chop down your door.
See? Even in real life, the mustachioed fireman is an axe-wielder.
In this example, note the mustachioed fireman's joy at the dragon's inability to properly hold the hose.
Does he even want the house to be saved? Are mustachioed firemen agents of evil? Well, maybe not, because here's a Sesame Street example, and, with the possible exception of Elmo, Sesame Street is no place for agents of evil.
This is what I'm talking about, though. Sesame Street taught the world that two guys can live together in an apartment without corrupting anyone, that angry creatures live in the garbage, and that vibrating giggling monsters make good toys for 3-year-olds. Clearly they're open to outside-the-box thinking, and yet they bought into the mustachioed fireman trope.
One last literary example:
Okay, I might have doctored the last one. But still! They're everywhere. And in fact, lest you think the phenomenon is limited to literature, I bring you:
We had this guy sitting on our Fire Shelf at my last library in the Chicago area. His jacket is closed by velcro, and at said library, the velcro had been destroyed by years of use. Most evenings he could be found sprawled on the floor with his coat hanging open, looking like he just finished a bender. I will state for the record that this is the only evidence I've seen that mustachioed firemen drink too much.
So what should we conclude about the mustachioed fireman? Is it a coincidence? A conspiracy? Maybe it's just real life. I know only one actual firefighter, and he does, in fact, have a mustache. And given that he is my father-in-law, I won't say here that he is involved in any mustache conspiracy. On the other hand, I'm not going to say he's not.
First up, a characteristic example.
Often, the mustachioed fireman gets to drive the firetruck. Occasionally, he also gets to wield the axe with which to chop down your door.
See? Even in real life, the mustachioed fireman is an axe-wielder.
In this example, note the mustachioed fireman's joy at the dragon's inability to properly hold the hose.
Does he even want the house to be saved? Are mustachioed firemen agents of evil? Well, maybe not, because here's a Sesame Street example, and, with the possible exception of Elmo, Sesame Street is no place for agents of evil.
This is what I'm talking about, though. Sesame Street taught the world that two guys can live together in an apartment without corrupting anyone, that angry creatures live in the garbage, and that vibrating giggling monsters make good toys for 3-year-olds. Clearly they're open to outside-the-box thinking, and yet they bought into the mustachioed fireman trope.
One last literary example:
Okay, I might have doctored the last one. But still! They're everywhere. And in fact, lest you think the phenomenon is limited to literature, I bring you:
We had this guy sitting on our Fire Shelf at my last library in the Chicago area. His jacket is closed by velcro, and at said library, the velcro had been destroyed by years of use. Most evenings he could be found sprawled on the floor with his coat hanging open, looking like he just finished a bender. I will state for the record that this is the only evidence I've seen that mustachioed firemen drink too much.
So what should we conclude about the mustachioed fireman? Is it a coincidence? A conspiracy? Maybe it's just real life. I know only one actual firefighter, and he does, in fact, have a mustache. And given that he is my father-in-law, I won't say here that he is involved in any mustache conspiracy. On the other hand, I'm not going to say he's not.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
I See You, Internet Browsers!
Until recently, I have not had a stat counter on my blog. A couple of years ago, I designed the husband's professional website (now defunct). At that time, I looked around for one and they all cost money. If I wasn't willing to pay money to see who wanted to look at the husband's art, I certainly wasn't going to pay money to confirm the small size of my readership. But when I accidentally encountered a free stat counter, I downloaded it, and to no one's surprise, I immediately became obsessed with my stats. But it's only because they're totally fascinating.
For example, do you know what brings more people to my blog than anything else? Two words: naughty vegetables. People, why didn't you tell me? Every week I go to the farmer's market and troll for the most entertaining vegetables I can find. Last week, there was a potato that looked like a nipple (not a breast, just a nipple) and a carrot with two legs, one of which was shorter than the other (I dubbed it "Pegleg the Pirate Carrot". Pegleg was delicious in a stew.) The husband and I have a theory that many people actually avoid these delightful quirks of nature. Apparently, the combination of cuisine and hilarity is more than they can bear. I weep for their poor shriveled souls.
Now, I can already hear the cynics among you. You're interrupting me to say, "Hey there, lady. You've been hanging out with four-year-olds for too long. These people aren't looking for your goofy vegetables. They are looking for people using vegetables for naughty purposes." Well, as I've told you many times, I'm a librarian. I am, by nature, a researchy sort of nerd. And I have already seen much of the sleazier side of life on the other side of the information desk. So I took the plunge and Googled "naughty vegetables". I learned two things. 1.) I am the second hit!!! This post may propel me to number 1!! Holy crap, that's amazing! 2.) At least on the first page or two, the hits aren't dirty. Even if you search Google Images, one or two of the images are a bit dicey, but nothing NC-17, at least when I looked.
This means one of two things. Either there is a largely unfulfilled demand for veggie porn, in which case, my visitors are sorely disappointed, or there is a largely unfulfilled demand for hilarious vegetables, in which case, I am at the pulse point of the American sense of humor. You tell me, strangers on the Interweb: which is it?
For example, do you know what brings more people to my blog than anything else? Two words: naughty vegetables. People, why didn't you tell me? Every week I go to the farmer's market and troll for the most entertaining vegetables I can find. Last week, there was a potato that looked like a nipple (not a breast, just a nipple) and a carrot with two legs, one of which was shorter than the other (I dubbed it "Pegleg the Pirate Carrot". Pegleg was delicious in a stew.) The husband and I have a theory that many people actually avoid these delightful quirks of nature. Apparently, the combination of cuisine and hilarity is more than they can bear. I weep for their poor shriveled souls.
Now, I can already hear the cynics among you. You're interrupting me to say, "Hey there, lady. You've been hanging out with four-year-olds for too long. These people aren't looking for your goofy vegetables. They are looking for people using vegetables for naughty purposes." Well, as I've told you many times, I'm a librarian. I am, by nature, a researchy sort of nerd. And I have already seen much of the sleazier side of life on the other side of the information desk. So I took the plunge and Googled "naughty vegetables". I learned two things. 1.) I am the second hit!!! This post may propel me to number 1!! Holy crap, that's amazing! 2.) At least on the first page or two, the hits aren't dirty. Even if you search Google Images, one or two of the images are a bit dicey, but nothing NC-17, at least when I looked.
This means one of two things. Either there is a largely unfulfilled demand for veggie porn, in which case, my visitors are sorely disappointed, or there is a largely unfulfilled demand for hilarious vegetables, in which case, I am at the pulse point of the American sense of humor. You tell me, strangers on the Interweb: which is it?
Thursday, September 24, 2009
An open letter to NPR
Dear NPR,
NPR, I'm going to be right up front here: I love you. I love This American Life and Fresh Air. I double-love Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me. I even (and I realize that I am very nearly alone among the under-60 set here) love Prairie Home Companion. My local NPR affiliate is absolutely the bomb, with interviews with Simon Winchester and Glen David Gold and Tracy Kidder, and all sorts of people that make my little intellectual heart go all a-flutter. And while I'm not sure that I love All Things Considered in quite the same way as I love the aforementioned shows, I rely on it. Robert Siegel and Melissa Block keep me company on the days when it is my turn to prepare dinner. And that's definitely something.
And so it is with great sadness that I have to write this. You see, NPR, on the weekends, All Things Considered kind of sucks. And I get that. Things don't happen on the weekends as much as they do on the weekdays. Fewer people listen, so you don't want to waste your big stories. But last Sunday, you hit a new low. A Ron Paul-style low.
Ron Paul has, apparently, written a book. It is all about how the Federal Reserve is stupid and should go away. Fair enough. Any crackpot with a computer can get published these days; why not Ron Paul? But NPR? Just because someone writes a book, doesn't mean you have to interview them about it, even if that someone is an elected official. And it certainly doesn't mean you have to ask for their idiotic opinions about anything, let alone healthcare. And yet, you asked him about just that topic. And what do you know?! He has idiotic opinions! He stated that he doesn't think healthcare is a right, that he thinks we as a nation are confusing 'rights' with 'wants' and 'needs'. Substitute "not dying from completely curable and preventable illnesses" for healthcare in that last sentence, and it'll give a better sense of the implication of that sentence, but whatever. That's bad enough, but here's the real kicker: he goes on to compare people who want health insurance despite pre-existing conditions to people who wait until their house is on fire to seek out fire insurance. This statement went unchallenged.
The problem with not challenging that statement is that it's ridiculous and completely ignores the actual concerns of the uninsured, the underinsured, and everyone else who is angry about our nation's complete failure in the world of healthcare. For Ron Paul's hypothetical to be actually analogous to the health insurance situation as it stands, it would need to be about people who try to buy fire insurance only to be told that the fact that they had a car accident once 7 years ago means they're ineligible. Or even more to the point, people who successfully buy fire insurance, have a house fire, and are then told that they won't be paid anything because they forgot to disclose that they own candles, and that while the company is aware that candles were not the cause of the fire, they are still going to retrospectively cancel the policy.
NPR, I have a feeling that your giving a platform to Ron Paul is an effort to counter the suggestion that you have a liberal bias. But here's the thing: you can interview anybody you want, and conservatives are still going to call you liberal. You're not going to change their minds any more than Fox News would win me over by interviewing Dennis Kucinich. If those of us who choose to listen to you wanted to hear far-right/libertarian points of view, most of us could call certain members of our extended families. The fact is that we don't want to, particularly not when making Sunday dinner. And if you absolutely must interview Ron Paul, we would like you to at least pretend to have a spine, and challenge him when he says stupid things!
Health insurance has long been a special concern of mine. I have blogged and blogged and blogged about it. I have read the heartfelt writings of good friends about it. I have researched it. Despite all that, my health insurance still sort of sucks. So when you play stories like that, and it makes my blood pressure rise, you should be careful, NPR. I just might send you my doctor's bill; heaven knows my insurance company won't cover it.
NPR, I'm going to be right up front here: I love you. I love This American Life and Fresh Air. I double-love Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me. I even (and I realize that I am very nearly alone among the under-60 set here) love Prairie Home Companion. My local NPR affiliate is absolutely the bomb, with interviews with Simon Winchester and Glen David Gold and Tracy Kidder, and all sorts of people that make my little intellectual heart go all a-flutter. And while I'm not sure that I love All Things Considered in quite the same way as I love the aforementioned shows, I rely on it. Robert Siegel and Melissa Block keep me company on the days when it is my turn to prepare dinner. And that's definitely something.
And so it is with great sadness that I have to write this. You see, NPR, on the weekends, All Things Considered kind of sucks. And I get that. Things don't happen on the weekends as much as they do on the weekdays. Fewer people listen, so you don't want to waste your big stories. But last Sunday, you hit a new low. A Ron Paul-style low.
Ron Paul has, apparently, written a book. It is all about how the Federal Reserve is stupid and should go away. Fair enough. Any crackpot with a computer can get published these days; why not Ron Paul? But NPR? Just because someone writes a book, doesn't mean you have to interview them about it, even if that someone is an elected official. And it certainly doesn't mean you have to ask for their idiotic opinions about anything, let alone healthcare. And yet, you asked him about just that topic. And what do you know?! He has idiotic opinions! He stated that he doesn't think healthcare is a right, that he thinks we as a nation are confusing 'rights' with 'wants' and 'needs'. Substitute "not dying from completely curable and preventable illnesses" for healthcare in that last sentence, and it'll give a better sense of the implication of that sentence, but whatever. That's bad enough, but here's the real kicker: he goes on to compare people who want health insurance despite pre-existing conditions to people who wait until their house is on fire to seek out fire insurance. This statement went unchallenged.
The problem with not challenging that statement is that it's ridiculous and completely ignores the actual concerns of the uninsured, the underinsured, and everyone else who is angry about our nation's complete failure in the world of healthcare. For Ron Paul's hypothetical to be actually analogous to the health insurance situation as it stands, it would need to be about people who try to buy fire insurance only to be told that the fact that they had a car accident once 7 years ago means they're ineligible. Or even more to the point, people who successfully buy fire insurance, have a house fire, and are then told that they won't be paid anything because they forgot to disclose that they own candles, and that while the company is aware that candles were not the cause of the fire, they are still going to retrospectively cancel the policy.
NPR, I have a feeling that your giving a platform to Ron Paul is an effort to counter the suggestion that you have a liberal bias. But here's the thing: you can interview anybody you want, and conservatives are still going to call you liberal. You're not going to change their minds any more than Fox News would win me over by interviewing Dennis Kucinich. If those of us who choose to listen to you wanted to hear far-right/libertarian points of view, most of us could call certain members of our extended families. The fact is that we don't want to, particularly not when making Sunday dinner. And if you absolutely must interview Ron Paul, we would like you to at least pretend to have a spine, and challenge him when he says stupid things!
Health insurance has long been a special concern of mine. I have blogged and blogged and blogged about it. I have read the heartfelt writings of good friends about it. I have researched it. Despite all that, my health insurance still sort of sucks. So when you play stories like that, and it makes my blood pressure rise, you should be careful, NPR. I just might send you my doctor's bill; heaven knows my insurance company won't cover it.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
From Naughty Vegetables to Dirty Tricks
I already shared about the scandalous vegetables to be found at the CollegeTown farmer's market. Today, I bring you a quick post to show you the further shocking things to be found when you commit to local eating: dead presidents.
That's right, folks. Richard Nixon, jowls and all, is alive and well and living in CollegeTown. Or at least he was until I baked him into a delicious eggplant parmesan.
That's right, folks. Richard Nixon, jowls and all, is alive and well and living in CollegeTown. Or at least he was until I baked him into a delicious eggplant parmesan.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Buggin' out
If you're a long-time follower of this blog, you may remember the time we had the termites. It was a dark time, and up to that point, it was pretty much my most traumatic bug encounter. And, really, it still is. There's nothing quite as traumatizing as the combination of thousands of winged insects in your house with the thought of potentially thousands of dollars spent getting rid of them. (They were in a very limited area, so it ended up not being that expensive and was covered by the condo association, but we didn't know that when we were staring at them in horror.) Just because they're not traumatizing, though, doesn't mean I'm happy about our newest roomies here in CollegeTown: ants.
We actually first got the ants at the beginning of summer. At first it was just seeing several of them in various places in the house. We had heard, though, that ants were more plentiful than usual this year, and we just figured it was a coincidence. Then they got into our honey. And honestly, people, even at that point, we were upset, but we didn't want to kill them. What can I say; we're cheap-ass hippies. Ain't no way we're spending money on toxic chemicals. Anyway, ants don't spread disease or do any property damage. A friend suggested putting the honey jar in a bowl of water (a sort of honey moat), it seemed to work, so live and let live, right? Except. They were everywhere. Everywhere! Not in our food, mind you - we protected all the food and they couldn't get to it. But everywhere else. And it started to wear on us.
So I turned to my friend the Interweb, who suggested that we make a bait out of honey, water, and Borax. It wasn't supposed to work overnight (they have to take it back to the nest, which was in our walls, which is so gross), but it really didn't seem like it was working at all. Quite the contrary; it seemed like we were running an ant soup kitchen. But then, finally, after a couple of weeks, it did. They were gone. It was great.
Then, literally the same day that I thought to myself that perhaps we could take the honey out of its moat, there were more. These ants are smaller, and this was after a break of a few weeks, so we think it's a new colony. As I said, we started from a position of being willing to co-exist with the ants. Now, if I could put something in the bait to make the ants explode when they ate it, I totally would. And with each and every little explosion I would chuckle the maniacal chuckle of someone who has been pushed to the end of her rope.
We actually first got the ants at the beginning of summer. At first it was just seeing several of them in various places in the house. We had heard, though, that ants were more plentiful than usual this year, and we just figured it was a coincidence. Then they got into our honey. And honestly, people, even at that point, we were upset, but we didn't want to kill them. What can I say; we're cheap-ass hippies. Ain't no way we're spending money on toxic chemicals. Anyway, ants don't spread disease or do any property damage. A friend suggested putting the honey jar in a bowl of water (a sort of honey moat), it seemed to work, so live and let live, right? Except. They were everywhere. Everywhere! Not in our food, mind you - we protected all the food and they couldn't get to it. But everywhere else. And it started to wear on us.
So I turned to my friend the Interweb, who suggested that we make a bait out of honey, water, and Borax. It wasn't supposed to work overnight (they have to take it back to the nest, which was in our walls, which is so gross), but it really didn't seem like it was working at all. Quite the contrary; it seemed like we were running an ant soup kitchen. But then, finally, after a couple of weeks, it did. They were gone. It was great.
Then, literally the same day that I thought to myself that perhaps we could take the honey out of its moat, there were more. These ants are smaller, and this was after a break of a few weeks, so we think it's a new colony. As I said, we started from a position of being willing to co-exist with the ants. Now, if I could put something in the bait to make the ants explode when they ate it, I totally would. And with each and every little explosion I would chuckle the maniacal chuckle of someone who has been pushed to the end of her rope.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Summer Summaries, Part 2: Summer Reading
Originally, I planned to write this entry about the library's Summer Reading Program. For those of you not in the know, that is a thing where children keep track of their reading in exchange for prizes. In the past, I have worked at libraries where the whole staff was expected to lose all sense of sanity and dignity in an effort to promote summer reading. At my current library, summer reading is still a Big Deal, but I am the only one planning and implementing it. While I've been insanely busy at times, I haven't been able to force anyone to dress up in silly costumes or engage the children in elaborate games of chance. So, my sanity and everyone's dignity are intact, which is cool, but yet again my awesome job has denied me a good story. (Good stories are one of the very few perks of soul-killingly bad work environments.) Instead, I'm going to tell you about my own personal summer reading. Is that a good story? Maybe not, but it's potentially more interesting than "...and then I made a Reading Log with some really neat clip art!"
It all started when, at some point in the past year, I seem to have decided that I wasn't quite nerdy enough. I don't know exactly how or why this happened. It wasn't a conscious decision. Clearly, being a former academic decathlete who completes logic puzzles for fun and is a librarian is more than enough nerdiness for most people, but I am not most people. I needed a project. A nerdtastic project.
So at the end of last year, the husband and I decided to read biographies of all the presidents. Which is a super way to increase one's nerd quotient, really, except that I accidentally upped it exponentially by getting excited about reading about some of the other people of the era as well. As it turns out, I read a George Washington bio and a Benjamin Franklin bio. Then while I was reading a summary of the events of 1776, I pulled out a replica of a map drawn by General Howe, and my nerd meter exploded. It was too much for me, and while I haven't given up on the concept, neither have I quite committed to taking home a book about president #2.
Then I figured out the problem. Yes, reading presidential biographies is nerdy, but it's not English major nerdy. I was too far out of my comfort zone. And that is why I started a quest to read all of the National Book Award winners. I started with The Man with the Golden Arm, which was the first winner in 1950. (I am a little bit ashamed to admit that I genuinely thought that book was about baseball. For the record, it is so not about baseball.) Then, in an act of craziness that I am still not entirely okay with, I skipped to the 2006 winner, The Echo Maker. I had been planning to read it before I started the project, and the Husband convinced me it would be dumb to wait the two years it will take me to get to this decade. But I have Book Chronology OCD from way back; believe me when I say that I did not discover The Truth About Stacey before learning about Kristy's Great Idea.
This project isn't a super-strict thing. I'm reading other things along the way. Already, though, I can feel my Nerd Power growing. Don't feel too threatened though; 1951's winner is The Complete Short Stories of William Faulkner. It's over 900 pages. Given that it's Faulkner, those 900 pages may contain 20 sentences total.
I may be writing about a new nerd project soon.
It all started when, at some point in the past year, I seem to have decided that I wasn't quite nerdy enough. I don't know exactly how or why this happened. It wasn't a conscious decision. Clearly, being a former academic decathlete who completes logic puzzles for fun and is a librarian is more than enough nerdiness for most people, but I am not most people. I needed a project. A nerdtastic project.
So at the end of last year, the husband and I decided to read biographies of all the presidents. Which is a super way to increase one's nerd quotient, really, except that I accidentally upped it exponentially by getting excited about reading about some of the other people of the era as well. As it turns out, I read a George Washington bio and a Benjamin Franklin bio. Then while I was reading a summary of the events of 1776, I pulled out a replica of a map drawn by General Howe, and my nerd meter exploded. It was too much for me, and while I haven't given up on the concept, neither have I quite committed to taking home a book about president #2.
Then I figured out the problem. Yes, reading presidential biographies is nerdy, but it's not English major nerdy. I was too far out of my comfort zone. And that is why I started a quest to read all of the National Book Award winners. I started with The Man with the Golden Arm, which was the first winner in 1950. (I am a little bit ashamed to admit that I genuinely thought that book was about baseball. For the record, it is so not about baseball.) Then, in an act of craziness that I am still not entirely okay with, I skipped to the 2006 winner, The Echo Maker. I had been planning to read it before I started the project, and the Husband convinced me it would be dumb to wait the two years it will take me to get to this decade. But I have Book Chronology OCD from way back; believe me when I say that I did not discover The Truth About Stacey before learning about Kristy's Great Idea.
This project isn't a super-strict thing. I'm reading other things along the way. Already, though, I can feel my Nerd Power growing. Don't feel too threatened though; 1951's winner is The Complete Short Stories of William Faulkner. It's over 900 pages. Given that it's Faulkner, those 900 pages may contain 20 sentences total.
I may be writing about a new nerd project soon.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Summer Summaries, Part 1: In which I am insured
This summer has been an extended effort to fight off inertia and general blahs. There has been a steady stream of things that have made me go, "I should blog about that... but then I'd have to get off the couch. Maybe tomorrow." In an effort to make up for my laziness and mild depression, I am introducing a new Misplaced Hoosier Special Feature: Summer Summaries. Join me as I recount the victories and defeats of a summer in CollegeTown. You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll long for the days when I fought the urge to blog by taking another nap!
Today's installment: insurance. When last I shared about the Great Insurance Battle of '09, I had been rejected by Insurance Company #2, based on incorrect information. This is going to blow your mind, people, but the insurance company was reluctant to admit that they made a mistake. My doctor's office was extraordinarily helpful, sending off all of my test results and notes and not charging me a dime for all the faxes and phone calls. The exchanges would basically go like this:
Insurance Company: We'll insure her once she gets that follow-up test you recommended.
Doctor's Office: But she got all the tests we recommended.
IC: Okay, but once she's finished with the follow-up, then we'll reconsider.
DO: But there is no follow-up!
IC: Oh wow, that's great! So just call up when the tests are done.
I kept re-submitting appeals, though, and after many tears, several phone calls filled with barely controlled rage, and a few very strongly worded letters, I was finally accepted, with an exclusionary rider on my fibroadenomas. This is ridiculous and kind of scary, actually, but at least now I can get my annual exam.
You want to know the worst part? After they accepted my appeal (read: 3 1/2 months after I first applied), they basically re-submitted my application, which meant that my monthly premium had went up (inflation, dontcha know). It also meant that I had been uninsured for over 60 days. They kept telling me it would have no effect on any preexisting conditions since they'd go with the date that I actually applied, but there is nothing in our shared history to make me think they're honest. And given that I had to call three times before someone figured out that the reason my application wouldn't go through was that I also needed to re-submit my payment info, I have no evidence to believe they're competent. I suppose it doesn't really matter, since my only real preexisting condition isn't covered anyway.
Of course, that's not the actual worst part. The actual worst part is that rather than working to fix the problem and reform the system, Congress is sitting around with their thumbs up their asses while making out with lobbyists from Big Pharma. Meanwhile, most Americans are one major accident or disease away from bankruptcy.
Oy vey. Now do you see why I haven't been blogging? Don't worry; things will get better in the next installment of Summer Summaries: Summer Reading!
Today's installment: insurance. When last I shared about the Great Insurance Battle of '09, I had been rejected by Insurance Company #2, based on incorrect information. This is going to blow your mind, people, but the insurance company was reluctant to admit that they made a mistake. My doctor's office was extraordinarily helpful, sending off all of my test results and notes and not charging me a dime for all the faxes and phone calls. The exchanges would basically go like this:
Insurance Company: We'll insure her once she gets that follow-up test you recommended.
Doctor's Office: But she got all the tests we recommended.
IC: Okay, but once she's finished with the follow-up, then we'll reconsider.
DO: But there is no follow-up!
IC: Oh wow, that's great! So just call up when the tests are done.
I kept re-submitting appeals, though, and after many tears, several phone calls filled with barely controlled rage, and a few very strongly worded letters, I was finally accepted, with an exclusionary rider on my fibroadenomas. This is ridiculous and kind of scary, actually, but at least now I can get my annual exam.
You want to know the worst part? After they accepted my appeal (read: 3 1/2 months after I first applied), they basically re-submitted my application, which meant that my monthly premium had went up (inflation, dontcha know). It also meant that I had been uninsured for over 60 days. They kept telling me it would have no effect on any preexisting conditions since they'd go with the date that I actually applied, but there is nothing in our shared history to make me think they're honest. And given that I had to call three times before someone figured out that the reason my application wouldn't go through was that I also needed to re-submit my payment info, I have no evidence to believe they're competent. I suppose it doesn't really matter, since my only real preexisting condition isn't covered anyway.
Of course, that's not the actual worst part. The actual worst part is that rather than working to fix the problem and reform the system, Congress is sitting around with their thumbs up their asses while making out with lobbyists from Big Pharma. Meanwhile, most Americans are one major accident or disease away from bankruptcy.
Oy vey. Now do you see why I haven't been blogging? Don't worry; things will get better in the next installment of Summer Summaries: Summer Reading!
Monday, April 27, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
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?
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?
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, January 16, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
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.
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.
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