Humaniac

Some years ago I was discussing health insurance with my doctor in Florida. At the time I had a choice of insurance policies and the doctor told me to make sure I picked a 'PPO'. So that is what I chose. I was happy enough with that insurance, so when I moved to Chicago I was going to get the same type of insurance coverage. However, for some reason a PPO in Chicago cost two hundred dollars a month more than it did in Florida. I looked at all my choices and saw that something called an HMO was the same price as the PPO I had in Florida, so that is what I signed up for. I have not been happy with it. For some time now I have had the suspicion that there are two levels of heath care. One for the folks who have more expensive insurance, and another for schmucks like me who pick the cheaper brand. Mark has always had great health insurance, Cadillac insurance, top of the line. His doctors always are offering to go above and beyond to care for him.

"Sir, Mr. Mark, we could harvest the parts you need from some homeless person. And don't worry, we will get you the best of medications."

My doctors look at what is wrong with me and seem to want to change the subject.

"Well Alan, that does look a bit painful and I suppose it could be fixed, but it really isn't worth it if you ask me."

Yesterday I got up early and took a shower, paying extra attention to washing my feet. I was going to the podiatrist. Once again I was going to try to get the doctor to do something about my feet. It's getting to the point where I can barely walk and I was hoping to get them fixed. Seriously, at this point I am deemed most likely to inherit my mom's Hoveround chair. Not that I wouldn't enjoy zipping around the house in it, but I do like walking too. So I got all nice and clean, clipped my toenails, put on nice new socks, and left for the doctor's office. I got there thirty minutes early hoping that I might get snuck in ahead of somebody.

"Hello Alan, do you have your new insurance card?"

I did, and I handed it to the nice lady.

"Thank you, and I'll need your referral... "

Well, goddamnedsonofabitch, I forgot. The damned HMO requires you to get permission from your 'Primary Physician' before you can go see a specialist. Like you would just go willy nilly to different doctors because it's so much fun. I immediately called my primary physician's office to ask them to fax the referral over. I got a long winded recording from an automatic answering service, and after hitting #2 for English, #3 for new appointments, and #1 to be transferred to an actual human being, I got an actual human being. She tapped away at the computer for a few moments and then told me that she had sent an urgent text to my doctor's office for them to fax the referral over. I wasn't even talking to somebody from my doctor's office, but instead I got a representative of the HMO. The HMO that I will be dropping next fall when it's time to pick an insurance company for next year. I waited an hour at the podiatrist's office for that fax to come through. It never did.

Memorial Day Memories

Scout and my sister's dog, Bear, celebrate Memorial Day

I have a lot of memories of past Memorial Day holidays. I specifically remember Memorial Day 1964. We had moved into a new house the year before and in the spring of 1964 (It might have been '65 or '66. My memory isn't that good.) Dad had a six foot privacy fence built around our back yard. Dad, making use of his biggest asset, child labor in the form of his teenage son, had me slapping stain on that fence. It wasn't too bad. Dad was out there with me and together we listened to the Indianapolis 500 on the radio while we painted the fence. Yes, I know, why the hell would you listen to an auto race? There was a reason. Our new neighbor across the street was Harlan Bettenhausen, who was related to the auto racing family of Tony Bettenhausen. So every Memorial Day, Harlan and his family would go down to Indianapolis because they always had somebody in the race. That made it interesting. I honestly didn't care that much, but the constant buzz of the cars whipping by the radio booth helped move the time along. On another Memorial Day I remember being in the Boy Scouts (They eventually kicked me out.) and taking part in Memorial Day services down by the old cannon in Memorial Park. Lots of flags and gun salutes. It was fun.

A couple of weeks ago I suggested that I wanted to invite the guys I bowled with over for a cookout on Memorial Day. In my mind it would be nothing fancy. Burgers, beer, and maybe some potato salad from the Jewel. I made the mistake of mentioning it to Mark. He took my idea and ran with it. He expanded it, he added to it, and he made it into work. Harder work than staining that fence in 1964. With each passing day between the time I mentioned the cookout, and Memorial Day, Mark added things to his menu. Yes, Mark writes up a menu for every party we have. Whereas my menu would fit on a post-it note, Mark needs a legal pad. For days Mark was cooking. Cooking for fifty people. I only invited a dozen. Each time I wandered within earshot of him, Mark would bark out orders to me. I fetched pots and pans, I went shopping for supplies, I moved furniture, I gave Mark back rubs. So by the time guests started showing up Monday afternoon, I was whipped. I was so tired I thought I would just drop into the grass with the dogs and go to sleep. But I didn't, I hung in there thanks to beer, wine, and some sort of cigarette people were passing around. I survived.

Rosie, You're Such a Dirty Girl

When I was a kid we were required to clean our bedrooms every Saturday morning. I'm sure there were times that is was a nuisance, but generally I liked doing it. I liked the cleanliness of the room, the neatness, and the fresh smell of a clean bedroom. Cleaning also kept the clutter to a minimum. To this day I hate clutter. Sure, clutter has its place. Like in antique shops, my grandmother's basement, and Mark's mind (That's why Mark could never be brainwashed. Too much clutter up there). Unfortunately I have hooked myself up to a clutter loving man. Too much crap in the house makes it very difficult to clean and to mollify me Mark bought one of those robot vacuums. We named her Rosie, very original. I programmed Rosie to clean the living room and the hallway every night at one in the morning. It's very eerie to wake up and look through the French doors between the dining room and the living room, and see that blue light flashing with Rosie moving back and forth. Each and every night I have to set the living room up for Rosie. I have to pick all the lamp cords up off the floor, all the dog toys have to be picked up along with any other crap lying around. I also have to clean Rosie out from the night before. You would think that after a month of cleaning the room every single night, there would be nothing left to pick up. Wrong, Rosie fills her little dirt chamber with dog hair, dust, and all kinds of nastiness every night. How on earth could there be that much dirt in my house? There isn't any visible dirt on the floor, yet Rosie finds plenty. I suppose it's possible that the robot is screwing with me, and sneaks out to pick up some dirt when I'm not home. Every night at around fifteen minutes after one, I hear her bang into the dining room door over and over again. Is that how she escapes to get her fill up of dirt? I don't trust her. I think she may be in cahoots with Alexa. 

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

I  have seven sisters. When they were young my mom let their hair grow long, very long (Which makes me wonder why she had such a problem when I let my hair grow long in the late 1960s). While scanning photos from the family albums I came across this photo of my sister, Sue. I think it might be right before she had her hair cut. You have to admit, that is a nice head of hair. I remember her having that hair cut off and my mom saving the hair, in curls, in a shirt box. I would think the photo would be enough. Anyway, I have a lot of memories of my mom, my sisters, and their hair. Usually it involved some screaming as my mom brushed out the snarls before putting their hair up in rag curls. It's another good reason I am glad I wasn't born a girl (Giving birth is reason number one).

I have the weirdest memory. I will remember things like Susan's hair, yet I look at those old photos and don't remember some of the big events. Below is a photo of my Uncle and Aunt's wedding. I was obviously there, I'm standing right in the middle with my mom and dad, dressed very nattily in a little sport coat and slacks. I don't remember one moment of that wedding. Not the church, not the reception, nothing. Of course now I look at that photo and I find it immensely interesting. There are two Ramblers, a 1960 Dodge, an older Chrysler product in front of that, and a Mercury in that photo. And that car that the Bride, my aunt, is standing in front of, could be a Buick. Like I said, my memory is very weird.

Say Hello To My Leedle Friend

Sometimes I get into calm and peaceful moments where I feel the weight of the world lift. I'll let my guard down completely in the privacy of my own living room, completely relaxed. That's when one of my neighbors will stroll by quietly with their dog. Very quiet, yet my dogs come running into the room, throw themselves up against the front window, and burst into loud barking. The fact that they can hear the soft padding footsteps of another dog through the windows is amazing. Anyway, Chandler usually lets loose with a couple of deep throated woofs and then quits. Scout, however, blasts away with one of the most irritating, loudest, most nerve jangling, non-stop barks you've ever heard. If a human could actually jump out of their skin, there would be a pile of it in my chair and I would be stuck to the ceiling. So I decided to do something about that. Since no amount of yelling, pleading, or threats got Scout to stop with all the barking, I bought one of those squirt bottles at Home Depot. I then filled it with water, and put it on the table next to my big fluffy chair. The first time Scout jumped up on the radiator and started barking at some poor schmo walking past our house, I let her have it. It worked. She stopped barking immediately and turned around to try and figure out where that came from. While she was looking around I let her have one more small squirt. Such a smart dog. She caught on quickly and realized that I had a bottle of acid that would rain down on her if she barked. I don't even have to put water in it anymore. All I do is pick it up and she freezes. Apparently she is part witch and does not want to melt.