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 |  Where am I going, and why am I in this handbasket? |
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Fair Warning: I've upped the rating on this blog. It is now set at GC. |
| Every now and then the state government turns around and completely confounds me by doing something that makes perfect sense! I take that back. I believe this is the first time it's ever happened.  It started on the federal level . . . Amongst all the pork attached to the bail-out bill, was a bill that has been bouncing around in one draft or another for quite some time. It is the Mental Health Parity Act. It along with the Addiction Equity Act of 2008 were signed into law along with the bail-out. The Acts are intended to improve access to mental health and drug and alcohol treatment by requiring insurance companies provide coverage commensurate with physical health coverage. yadda, yadda, yadda . . . but that's not the cool part. The cool part is that Pennsylvania is taking it a step further with The Autism Insurance Act. This Act requires insurance companies to fund services determined to be medically necessary in the diagnosis and treatment of Autism for up to $36,000 per year per child. Now, I know that the insurance companies will pass the cost along to the consumers, but it improves access, and it reduces the overall cost of the incredibly overburdened Medical Assistance program. Children who are diagnosed with developmental disabilities are eligible for Medical Assistance through a loophole regardless of the parent's income. Over the years there have been many proposed fee structures that would require parents to pay a premium for the Medical Assistance based on a sliding fee scale, but to date, all of those proposals have been killed. So basically, Pennsylvania developed a system in which Autism services became entirely tied into MA, and were provided - without premium - to all eligible children up to the age of 21. When my son was younger and needed speech therapy, the only way I could access that service was to apply for Medical Assistance for him. Speech therapy was only available through my health insurance to treat speech difficulties resulting from stroke or injury. I did not want to apply for Medical Assistance because I did not want to jump through all the hoops of diagnosing and documenting Zack's Autism. I deferred that battle until he entered school. Mostly, I didn't want to fight that fight with Tony who was dead set against the concept of having his son labeled. Anyway, I found that I could get a very minimal amount of speech therapy through the department of education's early intervention program. Fortunately, we had a good therapist, and she told me what I needed to do to work on increasing Zack's skills at home. The nature of Autism gives rise to a constant introduction of new and controversial approaches to treatment, and much of the literature around these treatments is anecdotal rather than empirical. The range of behavior therapies targeting these kids is broad and not well regulated. The new law requires the licensing of behavior therapists. That is a good thing. I also like that they are proposing a cap to the coverage because I've seen too many cases where the behavioral support staff are used as babysitters. Now, I'm just waiting to see the exemptions . . . businesses that provide group insurance to fewer than 50 employees and so forth. Maybe I should withhold all this adulation until I see the exemptions. |
| Today is "Cranky Co-Worker's Day" This leads me to ask the following questions: 1. Who decides these things? and 2. How do I convince my co-workers that they've had their day and should shut the hell up until next year? Okay, It's possible that I'm the cranky one, but maybe that will turn around tomorrow. Tomorrow is National Chocolate Day. Mmmmmm . . . chocolate.  |
| Yes, it is Write an Epitaph Day here in Kay's blog. Don't worry though, I'm not asking you to write your own. I am looking for inspired epitaphs for those failed (and/or bailed) financial institutions. You see, my friend Bonnie and her Hubby took me up on my Halloween costume idea. They will be dressing up as a "Government Bailout." The costumes will consist of hip waders, leaky buckets of cash (drilled full of holes and stuffed with fake money and chocolate coins), and of course, rubber pig snouts to represent the pork. Bonnie wants to carry small tombstones as well. She asks a lot of me. She wanted me to think up clever epitaphs for the tombstones for the likes of Lehman Brothers (or as Bonnie called it . . . Lehman Marcus), WaMu, or AIG. Well, my cleverness has stalled and the best I've come up with so far is "RIP AIG" (Hey, it rhymes!) So, I am turning to you, my readers, to bail me out. Think of this as yet another of Kay's silly blog contests. All participation will be rewarded with random gifts of gps, and if Bonnie selects your epitaph it will be published on the finest cardboard tombstone available. You'll also be compensated with copious gp-age. Okay, do your worst.  |
| I had to sit through a very long training at work today, and this is what I learned . . . 1. Bic Velocity pens can be converted into excellent projectiles. They have a retractable point, and that means they have a spring. The spring is the key ingredient to all great pen projectiles. This pen is ideal because it has a grip, and below the grip is the cone shaped tip that unscrews. Unscrew the tip, invert it, and seat it over the point of the pen so that it rests against the spring. Slide the grip up the barrel until it is snug over the inverted plastic tip. Aim, and slide the grip back over the barrel in a smooth quick motion. This will launch the plastic tip, and possibly the spring. 2. People are weird. Oddly, when you turn your pen into a projectile and launch it at your co-workers, they'll return the pieces of the pen to you. Go ahead. Try it for yourself. It helps if you smile sheepishly and say "oops!" In my small scale social experiment, I found that after about the third time, most of the victims subjects decided not to return the pen parts. 3. Boredom and necessity seem to be running neck and neck when it comes to the whole "mother of invention" thing. |
| I haven't had much time on-line lately. It is a combination of being too busy and or too tired. I swear, when the days get short and the temperatures drop, I just want to curl up in a ball and sleep until spring. I try to fight the hibernation instinct by staying busy, so I'm working on assembling all the Ikea furniture for the downstairs. Oh yes, the refinishing is complete! It still needs to be painted. The space is now divided with a 12 or 14 foot run of built-in bookcases, and I'm anxious to get them primed and painted so I can put away all the boxes of books! I've assembled two office cabinet thingies, a TV bench, a chair and footstool, and a sofa. I only need to hang doors on the cabinet thingies, and assemble one more large shelving unit, and everything will be put together. My hands and forearms are battered and scarred from the process, but I'll live . . . for now anyway.  Next step will involve messing with the electrical stuff. That has a bit more disaster potential. Oh wait! I forgot a piece of furniture. I also assembled an almost-too-tall for the room CD/DVD storage tower. Before it was properly anchored to the wall, I was sitting on the floor trying to reconnect the TV, DVD etc. I didn't realize the cable was behind the tower, and when I tried to move the cable, I brought the whole thing down on myself. Yeah, somehow typing "disaster potential" reminded me of that. So, I'm slowly chip, chip, chipping away at projects, and all the while, I'm toying with NaNo ideas in the back of my mind. That's life. Yesterday, Tony was off doing Tony things, and I didn't feel like making dinner (actually, I didn't feel like cleaning up Tony's mess in the kitchen in order to make dinner), so I took the kid's out to eat. At dinner, Katie was chattering on about school, and told me that she and the boyfriend, Max, are being harassed by the couple patrol at lunch. "What?" "The lunch monitor watches us all the time, and if I put my hand under the table at all, she comes over and makes us put our hands up on the table." "Really? Hell I'm going to have to start tipping that woman!" "Mom! It is so annoying and sooo unfair. She doesn't bother anyone else, and Max's Mom says that if it keeps happening we should go talk to the guidance counselor because it is harassment." "How exactly is she harassing you?" "She makes us put our hands up on the table while we're trying to eat lunch! And then, she looks under the table to make sure our legs and feet aren't touching." "Wow! That must make it hard to eat lunch!" "Your being sarcastic." "No, really! I mean . . . she makes you keep your hands up on the table and your lunch is . . . where?" "On the table." "You poor thing." Okay, I probably shouldn't laugh at her pain so much, but I think it is funny. I think the monitor is over-the-top, and should probably be paying more attention to the dude dealing drugs at table 3, but I still can't work up a lot of sympathy for Katie being required to keep her hands in plain sight. |
| I haven't done an open letter in awhile, so here goes . . . Dear Director of Sales and Marketing, I recently purchased your product after seeing it advertised on television. The commercial made the explicit guaranteed that if I wasn't "delighted" by the toilet paper, I would get my money back. Although the toilet paper is both soft and absorbent, and performs it's function well, I do not think I am "delighted" as advertised. Unfortunately, the store through which I purchased your product was unwilling to refund my money. In fact, they threatened to call store security if I persisted. In checking your web site, I was unable to find instructions or claim forms, and the 1-800 number proved to be equally useless. I am writing you at this time to express my dissatisfaction with your customer relations department, and to suggest the following changes. 1. Perhaps "delighted" is a bit too strong of an emotional response to expect from the average wiping-experience. 2. You claim that while your product may not cost less than your competitors, it is a "good value" because the ultra-absorbent layers mean my family will use less. My family doesn't seem able to intuit that they should be using fewer squares per wipe, and I am wondering if there is a ratio of absorbency to # of squares required factor that I could share with them to clarify the issue so I might begin to experience the "good value" aspect of the product. 3. Bears do not use toilet paper. I'm not even sure they wipe. I thank you for your time and attention in this matter. Enclosed is my proof of purchase, my receipt, and a stamp, self addressed envelope that you may use to mail my refund. Sincerely, Kay |
| Now I know what a "skid of shirts" is. On the bright side, learning is never wasted. Right? The down-side of this is that I have a "skid of shirts" in my garage. It is a long story, so I'll give you the condensed version (which is still long). Tony, as most of you know, is an instructor of two types of martial arts. The most recent form was founded, and is taught by a dude up in Canada. The dude and Tony have gotten pretty tight and Tony was recruited to be the US distribution person for the dude's merchandise. Fast forward to about three weeks ago (and shift POV), when Kay runs home for lunch and encounters a large freight truck parked in front of the house. Kay ignores them hoping they are just napping or something benign. Unfortunately, the driver jumps out of the truck as Kay tries to duck inside her front door. Kay is nabbed to accept the delivery. Kay opens the single car garage, and begins to haphazardly rearrange Tony's crap which includes a row of kettle bells (weight thingies) that must be moved. Kay steps out of the garage hoping that a "skid of shirts" will fit in the space she has created. She whips out her cell phone to leave pissed off voice mails for Tony and watched with astonishment as a pallet stacked a good 4 ft. high with boxes is maneuvered off the truck. Fortunately the "skid of shirts" fits in the garage, and Kay is able to close the garage doors, but now she is dirty, pissed off, and has a small hole in her pants where they got caught on a protruding nail. Kay is a good sport though, and she rolls with it. What a happy coincidence that she was at home to accept the delivery! Tony kisses Kay and asks her "What would I ever do without you?" Kay mutters something back. If you recall, Kay was planning to have some work down in the basement, but was having trouble finding a contractor. Well, Kay finally hired a neighbor who recently lost his job. He is making good, albeit sporadic, headway. Since the garage is full, all the materials must be stored in the basement and he is working around them. Kay made the unfortunate decision to place her order with Ikea in anticipation of the basement being finished prior to the furniture's arrival. Kay wasn't overly concerned about the time-line though because the furniture could be held in the garage until they were ready. That was before Kay knew about the "skid of shirts." Fast forward to last week. Another delivery! This time it's office supplies from Staples - all things necessary for the distribution business Tony explains. The boxes are still in Kay's living room. She'd move them to the basement, but they'd be in the way of the refinishing project, and the garage? Well, it's getting a little bit better. Tony is inventorying the shirts and repackaging/stacking them so they take up less space. Still, who wants to move 15 boxes of office supplies? Today was the Ikea delivery. Amazingly it all fit in the garage due to some clever arranging, but Kay is in serious danger of losing her freakin' mind. She breaks into a cold sweat every time a delivery truck turns down her street. Today she looked outside and saw a package and a tear almost formed. Fortunately, it was an outgoing package and not an incoming package. Fortunately, Kay is only expecting four more deliveries in the next two weeks! Did I mention that she lives in a small house? The pay off? Kay is going to be able to make the best box fort EVER! |
| I've been thinking. I've been thinking about change. I've been thinking about how much control we have over our lives, and how often we mess up when it comes to giving up some of that control by yielding either too much or too little. Mostly though, I've been thinking about patterns, and how we blindly play out the same patterns over and over. They say that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. I don't think learning saves us from repetition. I think the learning part provides us with a frame work for structuring and filtering events into a familiar pattern that we recognize and can respond to - even though the response might be entirely off the mark. Tony and I continue to fight the same fight we've been having for the 14 years we've been married, and then I step back and I see that it is essentially the same fight that my parents were having 25 years ago. I was raised to have this fight. I married a man who is innately selfish, and then I accommodated the hell out of him all the while resenting the imbalance this created and stewing over his selfishness for not reciprocating in kind. Neither of us is likely to change, and this isn't a communication problem. We've hashed and rehashed. We each know how the other feels, and yet we are still fully capable of disregarding those feelings at a moments notice. So what's a girl to do? Accept it or leave. (or grudgingly tolerate it while constructing an elaborate fantasy world in which to escape.) "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." ~F. Scott Fitzgerald |
Today I carried a stack of laundry into my daughter's room. While I was in there, I spotted a bright yellow post-it on the side of her bookcase. Out of curiosity, I read the neatly printed note. "G-string."  My hands went ice cold, and my chest constricted painfully. I stumbled over to the bed and sat down trying to get control of my breathing. "G-STRING?" Then the truth slowly dawned on me . . . guitar. It was a note about her guitar. Phew! |
| Today was a gorgeous fall day, so I conned the boy-child into going exploring with me. We drove out to Hickory Run State Park and visited the boulder field is a remnant of the last ice age. It is the largest boulder field in the Appalachian Mountain chain. In fact, the field comprises about 720,000 square feet or 16.5 acres, (1,800 feet east-west by 400 feet north-south). Here is my son relaxing on the boulder field. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** It's funny how people approach the field. Kids love to scramble out onto the field, but the adults hang back saying things like "that looks like a really good way to break a leg." Zack hurt his foot and I started to get nervous about getting off the rocks with a gimpy child. He kept grabbing onto me for balance, and I wasn't very steady myself. After the boulder field, we went to the lake. Turns out that the only thing more fun than climbing on rocks is throwing them into the water. This evening, I'm beat! But it was a beautiful day . . . ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
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