2008 Report on My Balls

Thursday was a red-letter day in the Passover department. Although we and Stop & Shop had run out of matzo, all was not lost. I made matzo meal bagels for the first time, from my grandma's recipe (which actually came from Manischewitz, but whatever), and they turned out rather nicely. Mrs. Gerbil likes them, though she wouldn't call them bagels, exactly.

For dinner I made matzo ball soup. I am pleased to report that, as in previous years, my balls were again quite splendid. Not too dense, not too fluffy, and swimming with some choice carrots in delectably salty broth.

Though I do love my balls, I'll be glad when Passover is done and I can have sandwiches again.

I am not the Jedi you are looking for

I used to feel rather guilty if I slept past 8:30 or 9 on a weekday. This changed with Tovah's arrival. I now feel emotionally out-of-sorts if I don't sleep past 8:30 or 9!

Previously I was not bothered by phone calls before 9:30 in the morning. Of course, this too has changed. 9:30 in the morning now feels like 7:30 in the morning, which is just too darn early for the phone to ring. But, perhaps to spite me, the phone has been ringing shortly after 9 pretty much every day for the past several days.

This morning the phone rang right on schedule. I think perhaps the woman on the other end, who was probably a telemarketer (and we are on the do not call list!) was operating on about as many cylinders as I was.

me: Hello?
woman: [says something not entirely into the phone]
me: Hello? Can I help you?
woman: Mrs. Davila?
me: I'm sorry, you have the wrong number.
woman: Mrs. Davila?
me: No, I'm sorry, you have the wrong number. Whom are you trying to reach?
woman: Mrs. Davila? I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. [ed.- huh?]
me: I'm sorry, you have the wrong number.
woman: Mrs. Davila, I do not have the wrong number! I called xxx-xxxx.
me: Yes, you did call that number, but as I've told you three times now, you have the wrong number. There is no one here by that name.

Then I told her to take our number off her list and summarily hung up. I'm not usually that abrupt, but it does really rub me the wrong way when someone persists in being mistaken about my identity.

Mrs. Gerbil says I should have said, "Oh, silly me, I forgot--today I am Mrs. Davila!" In any case, why do I keep encountering callers who have trouble accepting that people get new phone numbers--or rather, that phone numbers get new people?

On postpartum adjustment

The other day I tried on a few pairs of pre-preggo pants. I've been wearing regular tops since coming home from the hospital on Friday, but pants are of course another story. (Come to think of it, pants are pretty much always another story.)

I know that one loses a significant amount of weight in the first week or so after delivery, but I'm a little weirded out by the fact that, six days after giving birth to cuteness, I could again wear a pair of pants I purchased in the girls' department at JC Penney.

Oh, and here is cuteness at 1 week old:

baby Tovah is born!

This is Mrs. Gerbil borrowing the mike to report some happy news.

The baby gerbil Tovah was born yesterday morning at 10:10.
Everyone's doing great! And Gerbil will surely be sharing more with you when she's able to come home and use the internet.

Here is Tovah:

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.

Waiting

Mrs. Gerbil tells me I do not do sitting around on my butt very well. She is correct. I have been sitting around on my butt for a few weeks now, waiting for the gerb to arrive, and frankly, it's starting to get annoying.

For some reason, over the past few days I've been drawn to rehab movies. Last night we watched Postcards from the Edge, which wasn't all that interesting. I read the book (by none other than Carrie Fisher) several years ago--I recall the library's paperback copy had a hot pink cover--and didn't find it all that interesting either. Today we watched 28 Days, which was pretty interesting. According to the credits, the Betty Ford Center provided expert consultation for the film. How 'bout that?

(When I was still an insurance monkey, I would field a call about every three to four weeks from someone who wanted to know if Betty Ford was in network. Sadly, it's not. And oddly enough, none of the folks who wanted to go to Betty Ford had plans that included out-of-network benefits.)

Mrs. Gerbil and I have been talking to the gerb at length about all the wonderful things that exist in the outside world, although sometimes we get lazy and abbreviate this as "get born!" She has also taken to singing her own version of The Clash to my belly:

Should I stay or should I go now?
Should I stay or should I go now?
If I go, there will be breastmilk
If I stay, there will be no milk

I, on the other hand, do my best Gloria Gaynor:

Go on, now, go
Walk out the door
Just get born now
You're not welcome any more

With a week and a half before its due date, the gerb still seems perfectly content in there. Lately it's been throwing itself a whole slew of pre-release parties. Oh, little dude(tte), we will happily throw you a release party ourselves. Get born!

Nesting, part 2

I am doing some serious nesting these days. Having regained my sweet tooth as well as some of my energy, this is all a lot more fun.

In the middle of last week I made Irish potato candy, which actually has nothing to do with potatoes. Then, on Friday, I made a batch of hamantaschen. Our house is now officially fully stocked with a lot of sweet, fatty, carb-o-licious stuff.

Yesterday I started sewing a cute little baby outfit. I also washed all the gerb's clothes, diapers, and linens, and put the finishing touches on the setup of the gerb's room.

Today, in addition to my usual three loads of laundry, I cleaned the bathroom and vacuumed the house. Then I put up a whole bunch of framed pictures which had spent the past two months languishing in boxes in the closet. I wanted also to make a pitcher of nice decaffeinated iced tea, but there was a problem: we have no ice cube trays. (How did we manage to neglect to buy new ice cube trays after moving in?)

Meanwhile, the gerb is still flip-flopping away in there. I say it's high time for it to get to know the outside world, yo.

...and vice versa

Mrs. Gerbil, who is not Jewish, has taken to baking challah every Friday afternoon.

My mother, who is, spent this morning making hot cross buns.

And in other sociocultural/culinary news, I present yours truly, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen:

Walking the walk

The other morning I was driving through a rather un-scenic part of Springfield, Mass., looking in vain for my new allergist's office. Google Maps totally let me down on this one. A quick call to the office (from a gas station parking lot--I can't talk on the phone and drive stick at the same time) put me back on track, but I was fifteen minutes late and that made my punctual, detail-oriented self very sad.

While lost in Springfield for what seemed like forty days and forty nights, I noticed a young man clad in an oversized hoodie and pants so baggy that he had to hold them up as he walked--no, make that waddled--down the street.

I find this fashion trend very amusing. Mrs. Gerbil tells me that it began as a statement of solidarity with prisoners, who aren't allowed belts for their ill-fitting pants. But, dude. There's got to be ways to express your empathy that don't involve clutching your inseam to prevent spontaneous trou-dropping.

Nevertheless, I found myself in solidarity with this young man. No, my pants aren't in danger of falling down (far from it!)--but I'm also a waddler these days. I walk like a pregnant lady. It's a distinctive gait, like that of an Egyptian or of a psychiatrist.

Although pregnant ladies wobble but don't fall down, we sure have interesting ways of putting one foot in front of the other--especially when we can't see our feet anymore.

(BTW, the gerb is pretty much fully cooked at this point. Now we just have to wait around for it to pick a date for its debut!)

The categorical imperative

WARNING: This entry is not about Immanuel Kant's moral philosophy of unconditional obligations. If you're looking for Kant, you won't find him here. I kinda like Schopenhauer better anyway.

Well! Now that I've got that out of my system--I was watching this weird, vaguely vapid show entitled "Secret Lives of Women" today. I had never heard of it before, but Comcast OnDemand graciously provides a couple of episodes free, so for lack of anything better to do, I opted for an episode on so-called lipstick lesbians.

I've always been annoyed by the assumption that chicks who dig other chicks should fit into some neat little box, based on their degree of gender-role conformity. For one, traditional gender roles (including physical appearance and behavior) are pretty heterosexist. Some people, upon finding out that Mrs. Gerbil and I are married, want to know which one of us is the husband. My standard reply is along the lines of "Well, it's my job to do the laundry--and to take care of the car." That usually shuts 'em up.

So why do we have to fit into little boxes? Who makes the little boxes anyway? I rather enjoy being outside of the box--most of the time, at least.

This show featured a bunch of self-proclaimed lipstick lesbians. They talked about how much they liked being ultra-feminine girly-girls who like other girls. There were also some predictable sound bites from straight boys, the general gist being "ZOMG it is SO FRUSTRATING to see two really hot girls who are only interested in each other and not in me. WTF?"

And I got to thinking: what kind of lesbian am I? I'm certainly not butch, but I wouldn't consider myself especially girly, either. Most of the time, I prioritize looking presentable; I don't usually even think of myself as particularly attractive, though I know a lot of people (including, of course, Mrs. Gerbil) would beg to differ. Oh, and I rarely wear make-up.

Okay, so if I don't wear boy-cut jeans and act all super-butch, and I don't wear low-cut tops and act all ultra-femme, which box is mine?

I suppose you might say I'm a chapstick lesbian.

Assumptions, part deux

I thought that maybe, just maybe, folks in Massachusetts might assume that Mrs. Gerbil is my wife rather than my "special friend." In California, some admitted that they should know better than to assume that there is a Mr. Gerbil, but California does not have gay marriage. (Yet.)

But Massachusetts does have gay marriage. Mrs. Gerbil and I had a lovely Massachusetts wedding almost two and a half years ago. It is so nice finally to be in a place where our marriage is actually recognized; and in fact this was one of the major reasons for our move.

Unfortunately, it seems that my expectations were too high. Although same-sex couples have been happily (some might even say "gaily") getting hitched in Massachusetts for almost four years now, I guess changes in automatic thought processes take a little longer. (As a clinician, I should really know better, eh?)

Mrs. Gerbil and I have been attending classes at the hospital on childbirth and breastfeeding. We've also spent a few not-so-pleasant nights in the hospital when it looked like the gerb might make an early appearance. And we've had to explain our relationship a lot more often than I'd like.

At the hospital registration desk late one night, I indicated Mrs. Gerbil (who was sitting next to me) when asked for my emergency contact. "Oh," said the registration person, "is this your friend?"

"This is my wife," I said.

The registration person looked at me kind of blankly and said, "Okay, I'll type in 'cohabitant' for your relationship."

"No, she is not my cohabitant. She is my wife," I insisted.

"How about 'partner'?"

"We are legally married in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. If your system won't accept 'wife,' it should at least recognize 'spouse'."

Pause. "Oh," she said, "okay."

In our childbirth class, we are the only same-sex couple. Our instructor is very cool and makes an effort to say "partners" instead of "dads," and to correct herself when she does say "dads." But the instructor for our breastfeeding class was not so inclusive. It was "dads" this and "dads" that--even though we were not the only pair of women in attendance. Granted, some of those pairs were moms-to-be with grandmas-to-be. But there were three other pairs of women who were the same age. They may or may not have been couples; but in any case, I wasn't the only one there without a man.

We were greeted by the instructor at the door. "Hi, mom," she said to me, "what is your name?" I dutifully introduced myself. "And is this your friend?" she said of Mrs. Gerbil.

"No," I said, "this is my wife."

A pause, and then, "Oh. Well, that's all right then." (Jeez, I should hope so!)

So this is all very frustrating. Every so often I wonder whether I should be crass and say, "This is not my 'friend'; this is the person who knocked me up!" But perhaps this is not the way to win hearts.

The times, they are a-changin'

Mrs. Gerbil and I went out and bought a prodigious amount of essential baby gear yesterday. One of these essential items was a car seat.

Mrs. Gerbil decided that we should install the car seat right away, even though the gerb is not due for another five and a half weeks. (Of course, the gerb could really arrive any time.) I was tired and cranky from a lot of mall-walking in snow boots that really don't fit my swollen feet, so I said, "You're on your own!" and went inside to rest and grump about.

Installing a car seat is apparently very complicated, but the final score did turn out to be Mrs. Gerbil 1, car seat 0. So now we have a rear-facing infant seat in the car, but no infant as yet.

According to Click and Clack of Car Talk, the Subaru Outback is the ultimate lesbian car. We're now on our second Ultimate Lesbian Car, also known as the Bigger, Gayer Subaru.

I went out to Staples today to buy us a copy of TurboTax, and let me tell you, it was really strange to be driving a car with a car seat--even an empty one--in it. It was even stranger to know that said car is ours. Mrs. Gerbil, who had driven to and from Hartford earlier today, reported the same reaction.

The Bigger, Gayer Subaru has suddenly morphed into a Big Gay Family Car.

Oh my goodness.

Can you hear me now?

A few weeks after we moved, I decided it was high time to get myself a local cell phone number. It seemed silly to continue using my old phone number, for three reasons. First, it would be a long-distance call from any land line in these parts. Second, on account of the three-hour time difference, I was getting wrong-number calls at 2 or 3 in the morning. Third, even moving 3000 miles away did not make the pharmacy calls stop.

So I called Verizon and requested a new number. I'd changed my number once before, upon moving to California from Ohio, and it had been a very easy process... until I received a bill with an early termination fee on it. It turned out that Verizon's California operations are completely separate from their operations anywhere else. So Verizon's everywhere-but-California office tried to charge me $175 because they were not told by Verizon's California office that I hadn't, in fact, jumped ship. Fortunately, it only took one phone call to straighten that one out.

(It seems many telecommunications companies have separate offices for California-based services. When I signed us up for land line service in California with SBC, they tried to screw us over with this very bizarre method of "credit establishment," which amounted to giving us about 7 calendar days to pay our first couple of bills and then slowly lengthening the payment timeframe. This seemed like a trap, so I called to complain. I pointed out also that I'd had SBC service in Ohio for four years and had never once been late with a payment--hadn't I already demonstrated myself as a good customer? The representative told me that SBC's California office does not have access to records for SBC's operations in any other state. I tried to enlist the help of the California Public Utilities Commission, but apparently this backwards billing method is perfectly legal in California. Your guess is as good as mine.)

Getting my Massachusetts cell phone number was also very easy--almost too easy. Then I got my first bill and noticed that not only did I have late fees for January (a month for which I'd never actually received a bill) but I was being assessed California state and local taxes on my new Massachusetts number. Naturally, I called to rectify the situation. I got the late fee erased after much convincing of the reluctant representative that, during my 6 years with Verizon, I'd never once been late with a payment, and furthermore I'd never been billed for January anyway. She made me acknowledge at least three times that they could only waive the late fee once, whereupon I reminded her each time that I would have happily paid on time, just as I'd happily been doing for six years, if I'd actually received a bill in January.

The matter of the taxes was a little more complex. It seems that when I had called to notify them of my new mailing address--prior to getting my new number--whoever took the call had not also updated the primary location where my phone was being used. So their computer system thought I was receiving mail in Massachusetts but using my phone in California. (Huh?) The person who helped me fix this was very thorough and not the least bit reluctant. I like it when that happens.



I thought all was well until Mrs. Gerbil called me from home yesterday and found that she had to dial 1 and the area code to get through. We do not live in an area with 10-digit dialing. In fact, the entire western half of Massachusetts has the same area code, so local people look at you funny if you give your phone number as 10 digits instead of 7. My new cell number was supposed to be a South Hadley cell number, but it obviously was outside our local calling area. Our local calling area is pretty big, but it's definitely not the entire western half of Massachusetts. What gives?

So I called Verizon and asked where my new number was based. Imagine my surprise when I found out that it was based in Huntington--which is forty-five minutes away! I wasn't all that attached to my new number, and it seemed silly to keep a non-local number that I'd received when I'd asked for a local number, so I asked for a number that was really and truly local. This time I looked the exchange up in the phone book just to make sure. The representative magnanimously volunteered to waive the $10 new-number charge. It all seemed too easy. But we'll see when the bill comes.

That is, if it comes.

Mispronunciation

My aforementioned temp assignment is at a local hospital's VNA and hospice program. (VNA, for those not in the know, stands for "visiting nurse association.") This assignment has involved a lot of personal "firsts," like operating a Pitney-Bowes postage meter, stamping stacks of incoming mail with the date of receipt (which makes me feel oddly East German), and scheduling a UPS pickup.

This particular UPS pickup was an authorized return, and when I provided the representative with the return tracking number, she impressed me by telling me what company I was with. She did not impress me, however, with her reading.

"This is for the VNA and... um... ho-spice?" she asked.

I wonder--is Ho Spice like the Fifth Beatle?

Reality check

I officially started temping this past week. My current assignment is as a receptionist for a local hospital's visiting nurse and hospice program. I am reminded of the bridge in the Barenaked Ladies song "Never is Enough," wherein they sing

You get your Ph.D.
How happy you will be
When you get a job at Wendy's
And are honored with Employee of the Month

I'm not flipping burgers. However, I'm still not getting enough brain-cell exercise. I transfer calls, I open the mail, I operate the freaking awesome postage meter (this is the highlight of my day), and I sit around and stare at stuff. But hey. It's a job.

And I did actually learn something, which is that temp work is a fantastic cure for perfectionism. I will be the first to admit that I am a perfectionist. Many things have made a dent in my perfectionism, mostly having to do with grades which, contrary to my expectations, did not actually bring on the Apocalypse. But old habits die hard, you know, and I want to be the best damn temp there ever was.

Sadly, my efforts to be Super Temp were quickly thwarted. It is the nature of temporary work not to be able to get all the information one needs before diving in... especially when one is filling in for someone who's been doing the same job for almost two decades. Temps are expected to screw things up. (Indeed, I got blamed for doing something I couldn't possibly have done, as I was in the bathroom at the time.) And when there are pre-existing chronic communication problems in the workplace, the whole thing is even worse.

This is, like, totally awesome exposure therapy.

On authority

One of the formative events of Mrs. Gerbil's and my relationship was her accompaniment of my audition for the Newtown Chamber Orchestra's Young Musician Competition when we were but wee high school sophomores. I auditioned with the first movement of Vivaldi's Spring. Alas, I did not win (though a few months later I did win the Youth Orchestra of Bucks County's soloist competition, with the third movement of Mozart's Concerto #5); but we had a lot of fun.

As a thank-you to Mrs. Gerbil for her mad piano skills, my parents and I gave her a CD of The Compleat Four Seasons, featuring none other than Patrick Stewart reading the sonnets which the concerti illustrate. (Didn't know that the Seasons are based on sonnets that may--or may not--have been written by Vivaldi himself? Check it out, yo.)

Oddly enough, it took me nearly thirteen years to listen to this CD myself. But I finally did the other day, and I have to say that Patrick Stewart truly has the most wonderful voice. Violinist Arnie Roth isn't half bad himself; but oh, Patrick Stewart is marvelous.

I would do anything Patrick Stewart told me to do.

Okay, fine, if Patrick Stewart told me to jump off a bridge, I wouldn't.

At least, I probably wouldn't.

But I'd do pretty much anything else.



(Oh, and yes, I own that Picard action figure pictured above. Remind me sometime to tell you about the red felt carrying case I fashioned for him and his accessories.)

Blessings and curses

This shouldn't be a surprise to anyone, but western Massachusetts has a much more reasonable cost of living than does the Bay Area. For example, I bought a gallon of store-brand skim milk the other day at Stop & Shop for $3.69. A month ago we were buying store-brand skim milk from Safeway for $4.59 per gallon. (The gerb demands a lot of milk these days, so milk prices make me a lot happier than they probably ought to.)

The Commonwealth of Massachusetts is also a lot more concerned about health insurance than is the State of California. California's approach seems to be "let's wait until something goes horribly wrong, then get medieval on some asses" (as in the Blue Cross recission fiasco). Massachusetts' approach, by contrast, seems to be "let's see how much ass-medievalizing we can prevent." Recent legislation requires pretty much every resident to have his or her own health insurance--with steep monthly fines to deter potential law-breakers. Most employers are required to provide at least some kind of health benefit. There is even a state agency, the Commonwealth Connector, via which one can obtain insurance if one can't get anything through one's employer.

Unfortunately, the requirements placed on employers are pretty vague in terms of what constitutes minimum coverage. Mrs. Gerbil (who has found part-time work) and I (with the promise of temp work) have both been offered extraordinarily crappy coverage through our new respective employers. The plan which I've been offered has a very low maximum annual inpatient benefit which stands an excellent chance of being exhausted by the birth of the gerb--assuming, of course, no complications. The outpatient benefit doesn't cover preventive care, and the plan certainly doesn't cover mental health treatment.

Mrs. Gerbil has a choice of three coverage levels, two of which will only pay for 5 outpatient doctor's visits and 3 emergency room visits (presumably excluding ER services that lead to inpatient admission) per year. WTF? Now, I'm all for getting people hooked up with outpatient providers instead of using the ER for primary care, but if you've used up your five (again, WTF?) outpatient visits and you get a sinus infection, the only way to get the treatment covered seems to be to go to the ER. ('Course, the ER deductible might be more than the out-of-pocket cost of an office visit...) Again, there's no coverage for mental health treatment, and maternity care is subject to the same limits as other conditions.

My stint as a managed-care monkey gave me a very solid lesson in what sorts of questions one should ask about benefit design. However, it also taught me what constitutes a reasonable coverage limit. Naturally, I decided to call both of these insurance companies and press them a little on what exactly they cover and exclude.

First I called the plan I was offered. I waited on hold a long, long time and was eventually bumped into voicemail. The outgoing message promised a call back within 24 hours. I was not surprised when 26 hours went by with no call back, so I waited on hold some more and finally spoke to a very nice representative who really knew her stuff. She informed me that prenatal care is not considered preventive care (after all, pregnancy is a sickness), and therefore it is covered. She explained the various components of the inpatient benefit, the process by which one obtains reimbursement for prescriptions, and how to get documentation of prior coverage so as to be exempt from the pre-existing condition clause.

Verdict: plan sucks, but not as much as it could.

Then I called the plan Mrs. Gerbil was offered. I asked whether the outpatient visit limit also applied to prenatal care. The representative confirmed that it did. "That's amazing," I said, "and not in a good way. I'm in my third trimester, and even with a perfectly normal pregnancy I have to go to the midwife every two weeks!" The representative made an ambiguous little noise. I decided not to tell her that once I reach nine months, I'll have to go every single week. Instead I asked whether well-baby care and immunizations are covered, and if so, are those also limited to five visits. The answers: yes and yes. (The American Academy of Pediatrics' recommendations include no fewer than seven well-baby visits in the first year of life.)

Then I posed a more complicated question. Massachusetts has a fairly extensive mental health parity law. This plan has no mental health coverage whatsoever, so how is it exempt? The representative put me on hold, which I knew to mean that she had to ask her supervisor. When she came back on the line, she said that her supervisor (ha! I was right) told her it is because of the "delivery state." It didn't sound like the representative really understood this herself, but I happen to know from my all-too-recent managed-care-monkey days that exemption from parity laws depends on the state where the policy is written (and not where the patient lives) and how it is funded. (I swear, I wasn't trying to fake her out or anything! I just wanted to know!)

Verdict: plan sucks far more than expected.

And this, my friends, is reason #392 why I support universal health care.

Trainspotting

I went down to Pennsylvania for about 48 hours this past weekend. Now that Mrs. Gerbil and I live on the East Coast, it's much easier to plan last-minute trips to my parents' house. Instead of being cooped up in a plane for 5 hours, plus enduring all the aggravations of the airport, I stretched out on Amtrak for 5 hours.

In my experience, time passes much more quickly on the train than on the plane. For one, there's cool stuff to see outside. You can gauge your progress by which stops the train has yet to make. The seats are wide, there's lots of legroom, the bathrooms are reasonably sized, and you can walk up and down the aisles the whole time without getting stuck behind a beverage cart or being ordered to go put your seatbelt on. Because the train doesn't have seatbelts.

I think there's a certain beauty in the run-down structures that one typically sees along the tracks. Also, I find trainyards absolutely fascinating. I can't explain it. This journey definitely did not disappoint on either the dilapidated building front or the trainyard front.

In one of the trainyards in Connecticut, I spied the most amazing maintenance of way cars. I am not sure what they are called, but they are flat and have a big metal steering wheel type thing on one end. They can be connected to each other or to an engine, and they are obviously not for transporting anything beyond the yard. One of these cars was particularly awesome. At one end was stenciled the following instruction:

DO NOT HUMP

I'm sure this means something very particular in train-speak. At least, I hope it does. Either way, it's very good advice.

And the survey says...

First things first: We have phone service! The Verizon guy came this morning and had everything working in less than 10 minutes. Praise the Lord and pass the address book! Haven't heard from our case manager, though we did get a nice (albeit rather superfluous) phone call on our land line to inform us that our phone was now in service. Right-o. That only took two weeks...

And now for other things.

In the mail the other day we received a "Consumer Product Survey of America." I have no intention of filling this out, as doing so will only result in our being bombarded with junk mail. Even if I did not provide our address, I'm guessing that the serial number on the form is already associated with same. And besides, most of the questions don't pertain to our shopping habits anyway.

However, just for laughs I reviewed the survey thoroughly. I found that the "not applicable" field descriptions were priceless. For example:



and my personal favorite:


This all kind of reminds me of lolcat syntax:



I couldn't have said it better myself.

Playing telephone

First, some ketchup: Day Five of our cross-country drive took us to my parents' house in good old Newtown, PA; and Day Six took us to our new home in South Hadley, MA. We've been here since January 13, but we only just got the internet to come into the house this morning. Thus, my lapse in blogging. Sorry about that. (In any event, there wasn't anything funny on Day Five except my parents; and by the time we actually made it to our new abode, we were too tired to consider anything funny.)

So, yes, the internet now successfully comes into the house. The telephone, however, does not. Verizon was supposed to have connected our new phone number on January 11, such that it would work when we arrived a few days later.

It did not.

Well, that's not entirely true. We plugged a phone into the jack and got a dial tone.

When we moved to Berkeley, we discovered that we had a dial tone but no ability to receive calls, as some other number was coming into the house instead of the one we'd ordered. Amazingly, SBC was able to fix the problem within 48 hours. What had apparently happened was that the previous tenants had not disconnected their phone service (which was with another company), so SBC had to send someone up the pole to unplug the line and plug it in again. And voila, we had our rightful phone number.

Having learned well from this experience, I called my cell phone from our newly-plugged-in Massachusetts phone to see what number came up on the caller ID. And lo, it was not our phone number.

So I called Verizon on the 14th and asked them please to hook up our phone which was supposed to have been hooked up on the 11th. I was assured that this would be done by the end of the business day.

It was not.

I called again on the 15th and asked them please to hook up our phone. The representative said that there was defective wiring outside the house, and that it would be corrected either by the end of the week or by February 8. I expressed my frustration that (1) our service had not been connected as scheduled and (2) no one had contacted me to inform me of any problems, when I'd provided my cell phone number for exactly this reason upon placing the order. I made the representative promise me that we would not be charged for phone service until it actually worked. Then I asked what we were supposed to do about all the people (read: potential employers) to whom we'd given our non-working number. The representative offered us a voice mailbox.

"I hope we don't have to pay for that either," I said. The representative thought for a moment and then agreed that we would not be charged for voicemail. Score!

By the end of last week, we still did not have a working phone line. So I called Verizon again. I was told that there was a problem with the outside line--more specifically, that there was no line coming into the house.

"That's interesting," I said, "because every call I've made about this issue has been from a phone that is plugged into a jack in my kitchen."

(This is oddly similar to a situation frequently encountered by Childhood Friend J, who used to work for the phone company in Wisconsin. The difference is that his callers would call him to say their phones weren't working at all--then inform him that the number they were calling from was the one that was out of service.)

I was assured that there was, indeed, a problem outside the house, and that someone would fix it as soon as possible. I was also offered a rather condescending explanation of "how phone lines work," which I politely (okay, semi-politely) declined.

Yesterday, we were very excited to see a Verizon guy up the pole that serves our house. Oh, frabjous day! Calloo, callay! But alas, by evening we still did not have our phone. So I called Verizon again. Verizon said that the number that was coming to our house used to belong to the animal hospital across the street. The animal hospital had since switched carriers and phone numbers, but through the miracle of crossed lines, we somehow wound up with their old number. Verizon also said that the pole-climber had indeed found a working line up there, which could be routed to our house once another technician could come to unplug some wires in our network interface box and then plug them back in again. Verizon promised that this would be done by 11am today. Verizon also promised that I would get "more confirmation calls than I probably wanted" today, not just from the repair department but also from our case manager.

I feel a little weird being case-managed by the phone company.

Needless to say, by 2pm today no one had gone near our network interface box. I called Verizon again and, after initially being told that there was no work order on file for today, was promised that "someone will be out by the end of the day today." It's now well after dark, and not only does our phone still not work, but I haven't received any of these fabled multiple confirmation calls.

I'd call our case manager (again, being case-managed by the phone company? totally weird) but I have no way to get in touch with her.

Verizon must be taking lessons from the Department of Mental Health.