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.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
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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