2009 Report on My Balls

Okay, I admit: I totally neglected this blog for five months. I kept thinking how I really ought to post things, and then I never did, and I really have no excuse for leaving you, dear reader, high and dry for so long--

--except that in the meantime I've been running after a 1-year-old (who is newly walking!), getting dressed up three times a week like a therapist again and being paid nicely for it besides, and finding myself trapped in the time-sucking vortex that is Facebook. Yes, despite my insistence that it would be bad for me professionally to be on any social networking sites, I signed up for Facebook. (And I play a mean game of Scramble, if I do say so myself.)

But this evening I decided it really was time to rejuvenate this blog. And what better subject than my balls?

As previously reported, my balls continue to be quite the awesome delicacy. This year, my balls are more dense than fluffy, although they are by no means cannon shot. The broth is half vegetable, half chicken, and is accented with slices of carrot. I'm proud to report that Tovah is a big fan of my balls.

On that note, Mrs. Gerbil and I realized that this is really the last year that we can talk about my balls. We fear that Tovah (who is already frighteningly intelligent and possessed of a weird sense of humor) will tell her preschool teachers that her favorite food is Mommy's balls. So, starting next year, we will be having plain old matzo balls on Passover. But this year I shall feel free to wax especially rhapsodic about my balls--at least until the leftovers are gone.

Not a dirty word

Every time I hear or read about some Republican's beef with Obama's reference to "spread[ing] the wealth around," I wonder all over again what is wrong with this idea.

"What's wrong with a little socialism every now and then?" I ask myself.

"Oh, right," I answer myself. "I'm a socialist!"

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Mel Gibson is stalking me

...and he's not doing it very effectively.

Cases in point:

1) In 2002, M. Night Shyamalan's rather disappointing Mel-Gibson-vs.-aliens flick Signs was filmed in and around my charming old historical hometown. But I'd moved from my parents' house to Cleveland a little more than a year prior. Sorry you missed me, Mel.

2) Last week, scenes from the new movie Edge of Darkness were filmed at the book depository of my alma mater, a location also known as the Bunker because it is, well, an old military bunker. I've never actually been to the Bunker, but it's about five miles from our house and I drive past it several times a week. Sorry you missed me again, Mel.

3) Tomorrow, more scenes from Edge of Darkness will be filmed at the old county courthouse, in downtown Northampton. I go to Northampton frequently. In fact, Tovah and I drove through Northampton yesterday and today, and we saw all sorts of cinematic equipment being hung on the courthouse. We also saw throngs of people standing around and watching said equipment-hanging, and police standing around and watching said throngs of people. Partly on account of the filming (and the concomitant traffic delays and even more pronounced lack of parking), and partly on account of lack of need to go to Northampton, I won't be going by the courthouse tomorrow. Mel! Your timing sucks.

It's what's inside that counts

As part of my policy of getting out of the house at least once a day, Tovah and I make regular trips to Big Y. By "regular," I mean "at least six times a week." Sometimes we go more than once a day, but this is because we live across the street (translation: no wasting of gas) and Tovah goes in the stroller (translation: I can't fit that much in a basket).

The parking lot is not very pedestrian-friendly. The crosswalks are in weird places, drivers don't look where they're going, and there aren't a lot of curb cuts. (Side note: the more we've gone out with the stroller, the more aware I've become of accessibility issues. Like wheelchairs, strollers aren't designed to hop curbs.) We try to use the sidewalk in front of some of the stores, but we can't always get around the bags of Quik-Krete in front of the hardware store or the cigarette-smoking men in fatigues in front of the military recruitment office. Thus, we frequently end up walking amongst the parked cars.

Every weekday afternoon, the parking lot is chock-full of junior high students. Most kids around here walk or ride their bikes to school, and on their way home they all converge at Friendly's for ice cream and french fries. Let me tell you, I feel really old when I'm pushing a stroller through a pubescent crowd.

The other day we walked by a young fellow on a bike. "Casey, my little African-American friend!" he called to a friend of his who was several yards away.

Both Casey and his buddy were decidedly Nordic in appearance.

I will never understand the early adolescent male.

Growing up

Although I'm only 17 months and two days away from turning 30 (ZOMGWTF!), I occasionally still have difficulty remembering, and accepting, that I am an adult. Perhaps it is my baby face. Perhaps it's a lingering effect of having been at least a year younger than my classmates in school. Or perhaps it's a function of just how long adolescence lasts in US culture--some theories of development hold that adolescence lasts until age 26!

But there are some things in my daily life that remind me that yes, indeed, I have achieved adult status. I'm not talking about things like approaching my third wedding anniversary, having a baby, having bought a car, or even having moved out of my parents' house seven years ago.

No, I'm talking about much more quotidian things. Things like...


boiling water for tea...


having a fully stocked medicine cabinet...


and knowing how to make (and ice) cupcakes completely from scratch.

Tea, baked goods, and healthcare--these, I think, are the really important things in adult life.

Design flaw

What with the rising price of gas, Mrs. Gerbil and I decided it was high time to get new bicycles. My old beloved purple bike had died a valiant death of rust before our move from Ohio to California, and Mrs. Gerbil's black one was sacrificed for our move from California to Massachusetts. Mrs. Gerbil had promised me a new bike for Hanukkah a few years ago, and we'd gone to a bike shop of good repute in Berkeley to check out the stock; but the very nice employee wasn't able to identify the right bike for my overall size (not very big) and posture needs (weird).

So a few weeks ago, on recommendation from one of Mrs. Gerbil's co-workers, we went to Joe's Bike Garage. Joe's Garage is a tiny little place whose website, as far as I can tell, only has an index page; but Joe had the perfect bike for us. We each got a Redline R510, and dang, am I in love with my bike.



The other day I went on an extended little jaunt in search of a prescription and some ingredients for dinner. As I was unchaining my beautiful bike from the trash can at Big Y (note to local businesses: please provide bike racks!), an older man in a boater hat approached me. "Can I ask you a question about your hat?" he asked.

"My helmet?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Sure," I replied.

"Why is it shaped like that?" he asked.

Assuming he was referring to its fairly typical contour, I said, "It's more aerodynamic this way."

"It doesn't cover the side of your face," he said. "Why isn't it shaped like a football helmet?"

"There are some helmets like that," I said, "but I guess this one is just made to protect your brain. If you fall on the side of your face and break your jaw, they can wire it back, but if you hit the top of your head and get a brain injury, you're pretty much screwed."

Dammit, I thought, I shouldn't use words like "screwed" when conversing with nice 80-year-old men.

"Oh, okay," he replied. "But me, if I fell off a bike, I would probably fall on the side of my face. Bye!"

Loyalty and algebra

Although we don't really live in a real neighborhood these days, we are right across the street from a whole bunch of useful things. These include the cheapest gas station in South Hadley, Dunkin' Donuts, a Chinese restaurant, a Greek and pizza restaurant, a drycleaner, Friendly's, a hardware store, and a grocery store. (Oh, and there's an armed services recruiting office, too, but that's not so useful for us. After all, Tovah's too young to enlist, and we're too gay.)

The grocery store is a Big Y, and unfortunately its convenience factor is offset by its prices. Mrs. Gerbil is in charge of most of the grocery shopping around here, and she prefers the PriceRite a few miles away. But when the PriceRite doesn't have what we need, or when we just can't be bothered to drive or bike out there for a few items, we just go across the street.

The Big Y, unlike the PriceRite, has a loyalty program. There is your standard savings card, but there are also these little coins that you sometimes get at the register. The coins grant you discounts on items we never buy (like pre-fab frozen bagel pizza bites, ice cream cakes, and steak). There are silver, gold, red, and blue coins; silver coins get you the smallest discounts and of course are handed out at greatest frequency, usually in pairs. We have about three dozen silver coins, and needless to say, this is all kind of annoying.



I perused the rewards flyer the other day and discovered that a silver coin will get you a free small cup of coffee. Mrs. Gerbil is a coffee fiend, so I suggested that instead of making coffee twice a day, she should take a coin across the street and get some free coffee. On Thursday I tried this arrangement out for myself. The decaf was pretty good; but I hadn't realized that even if you pay for a purchase entirely with silver Big Y coins, you still tend to get a pair of silver coins at the register.

Let x equal the number of coins with which we started out. Despite my efforts to turn coins into coffee, we now had x+1 coins.



On Friday morning, Mrs. Gerbil and her mother (who's enjoying her grandma time immensely) went across the street for coffee for all three of us. They returned with two regulars, one decaf, and (argh!) two more silver coins. After four free cups of coffee, our coin collection had achieved homeostasis, with (x+1)-3+2 coins... otherwise known as x coins.



Mrs. Gerbil and her mother went back across the street for more coffee on Friday afternoon. They returned with two regulars, one decaf, and (praise the Lord!) not a single silver coin. Seven free cups of coffee later, we possessed x-3 coins.

This morning, Mrs. Gerbil brought back three more free cups of coffee (two regulars and one decaf, of course)... and two more infernal silver coins. This brought us to nine free cups of coffee but (x-3)-3+1, or x-5, coins.



Secondary school students often complain that algebra isn't useful in the real world. Perhaps the powers that be at the Big Y are counting (ha ha) on its customers remembering the pain of algebra rather than its methods. But in any case, hey, small cups of Big Y coffee are the gift that keeps on giving.

Guilty until proven innocent

I am among the many lucky souls who have allergic asthma. Thus, when my allergies are sufficiently under control, I don't have asthma attacks. Though I'm never totally symptom-free as far as my allergies are concerned, asthma management has always been fairly easy for me. The only extended period of respiratory problems I've ever really had was the direct result of my severe allergy to California. And, since we left California almost three months ago, I haven't had a single attack. Hm.

In the US, uncontrolled asthma is undoubtedly a major cause of morbidity, mortality, and (of course) health care spending. And it seems that just the word "asthma" is enough to put managed care's panties in a bunch. I've had to fill out a couple of post-enrollment "risk assessment" forms for various insurance plans over the years, and of course they all want to know what chronic conditions I have. Because I am pathologically truthful, I always check off the little box for asthma.

I know that this means that I will be contacted by a disease management nurse. And that I will have to work really, really hard to convince him or her that I do not need any assistance managing my asthma, thank you, that my inhalers always expire before I've used them up, and that I have an allergist who actually sees me for appointments, which is far superior on all counts to having someone who's never met me attempting to do disease management by phone.

But as I said, I'm pathologically honest.

About a year ago, I had called our insurance's nurse advice line to ask whether I should use industrial-strength steroid cream or good old hydrocortisone on a rash that had just appeared on my arm. She wasn't much help in my decision-making because she wasn't familiar with the industrial-strength stuff. But then she asked if I have asthma. I said yes. "I'm supposed to refer you to our asthma management program, then, so would you like me to refer you?" she asked. I said no. We hung up, and I went to put some hydrocortisone on my arm. (It worked just fine, by the way.)

A few weeks later, I got a big thick envelope in the mail from our insurance company. "Welcome to the Asthma Management Program!" it proclaimed. "Please call us to complete your initial assessment!" I was not pleased. I called the number and had the following conversation:

me: I just received this packet and I do not want to be enrolled in the program.
asthma management program person: Who referred you?
me: One of the nurses on the nurse line. I'd called her about something completely unrelated. She offered to refer me and I said I didn't want to be referred, but it looks like she did it anyway.
AMPP: Do you have asthma?
me: Yes.
AMPP: Well, maybe this program would be helpful for you. How often do you use your rescue inhaler?
me: Fewer than five times a year. The last time was almost four months ago. I don't want to be in this program. I have an allergist. She's in-network. Please disenroll me. I never wanted to be enrolled in the first place.
AMPP: Oh, okay, it sounds like you can manage things yourself. I will disenroll you. You won't receive anything else from us.
me: Thank you.

A few weeks later, I got another big, thick envelope from our insurance company. "Thank you for enrolling in the Asthma Management Program!" it said. "Please call us to complete your follow-up assessement!"

Oh, boy, was I ever steamed.

me: I am not enrolled in this program. Why do you keep sending me letters that ask me to call?
asthma management program person: Who referred you?
me: A nurse from the nurse line. I told her I did not want to be referred. She referred me anyway. I called earlier this month when I received a welcome packet and asked to be disenrolled. I was told I wouldn't be getting any more materials. This obviously is not the case.
AMPP: Maybe our program could be helpful for you--
me: As I explained when I called the last time, I use my inhaler fewer than five times a year, I have an in-network allergist whom I see regularly, and I never consented to being enrolled in this program.
AMPP: Oh.
me: I'd like to file a complaint about this, actually, because I consider this all to be an invasion of my privacy. Maybe the nurse was required to refer me, but if that's the case, it should have been a lot clearer that I didn't have a choice. As it was, she asked for my consent, I withheld it, and this is the second phone call I've had to make to try to get myself disenrolled from a program I'm not interested in.
AMPP: Oh, I'm very sorry. We do take your concerns seriously. I'm going to pass this along to our medical director. You won't be receiving anything more from us.

Convincing my insurance company that I don't need extra help with asthma management shouldn't be like convincing my credit card company that I don't need to sign up for a great balance transfer rate. Although the credit company doesn't necessarily know that I have no debt to transfer, the insurance company should be able to tell from my claims history that I don't show up in the ER with asthma.

On the road: Day Four

Today we had a relatively short day of driving--eight hours as opposed to ten or ten and a half. We drove from Lonoke, AR, to Knoxville, TN. This particular stretch of I-40 is equally rich in churches and porn shops, as Mrs. Gerbil observes.

I didn't take any scenic pictures today. I did, however, capture some amazing truck graffiti:



(The world on time, indeed!)

Also we passed arguably the best-named town in the entire state of Tennessee:



(Yes, that does say "Bucksnort.")

America the Beautiful? Try America the Weird!

On the road: Day Three

Today we made it all the way from Amarillo, TX, to Lonoke, AR. Lonoke is about twenty minutes or so east of Little Rock. My cell phone doesn't work very well here, and the phone book is about as thick as your average elementary school novel, but lodgings are much cheaper in these parts than they are in Little Rock.

The cat complained a lot more than usual today--almost four hours of pissed-off meowing. She finally settled down for a (thankfully very long) nap in the early afternoon. We determined that she was just frustrated with being in the car for so long. She's not the only one!

Odd sightings of the day:

1) The Northern Hemisphere's Largest Cross, or so the billboard would have one believe. It's in a field just east of Groom, TX. And indeed, it is humongous.



2) The Alanreed Jail. It's in the microscopic town of Alanreed, TX, at a perfectly respectable (though also microscopic) combination of a gas station, country store, and post office.



The only other customers at the gas pump were two guys about our age who were also on their way to western Massachusetts from California. Small world!

On the road: Day Two

Today we drove from Kingman, AZ, to Amarillo, TX. It was a very, very long day. Three of the four of us (i.e., Mrs. Gerbil, the cat, and I) were rather displeased by the length of today's drive. The cat, on the other hand, feels the need to complain a lot before allowing herself to be lulled. She'll go to sleep after about an hour of kvetching; but that first hour is not pleasant for anyone involved.



The scenery, however, was lovely. For some reason I hadn't realized that the desert would be covered in snow in the beginning of January--perhaps because when I think "desert" I think "hot." But there was quite a bit of snow throughout much of Arizona and New Mexico.



We made it almost all the way across New Mexico before the sun set. Said sunset lit up an awesome cloud formation in the eastern sky.



Odd spotting of the day: a purveyor of ostrich eggs and half-price meteorites. Well, actually, we didn't see the place itself, only its billboard.



What I want to know is this: Who determines the regular price of meteorites?

On the road: Day One

Mrs. Gerbil and I are en route to our new place in western Massachusetts. Today we drove from our lovely extended stay quarters in Emeryville, CA, to Kingman, AZ. (We had left our Berkeley apartment on New Year's Eve day to accommodate the landlords, but to accommodate our employers, we had remained in the Bay Area another week.)

Before today, I had never seen California's Central Valley, which was long and full of artificially irrigated orchards. Further down the road, while the sun was still up, Mrs. Gerbil and I enjoyed the Joshua trees in the Mojave Desert, which we agreed looked like something out of Dr. Seuss.

Of course, we also noted a fair number of odd things. We saw an RV called the Citation, which we agreed was even better than the Intruder. We saw a billboard advertising a (poorly proofread but profoundly jerky-riffic) website, FreshJerky.com.

We spotted a restaurant in Barstow called Bun Boy. I am not making this up.


Finally, there is a rather large prison bus in the parking lot of our motel. Neither Mrs. Gerbil nor I wants to know what the Arizona Department of Corrections is doing on the premises.