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.

Public transit story #23: You're hotter than these pretzels

Mrs. Gerbil and I took Tovah on her first overnight trip this past weekend, to visit Grandma and Grandpa Gerbil. A very fun time was had by all!



(Moo, I am sorry we didn't have time to look you up... but once you move to Phila., getting together will be even easier!)

On our way back today I had this fantastic conversation with the man selling soft pretzels, nuts, Swedish fish, etc. at the Trenton train station. He looked at least old enough to be my father, if not my grandfather; and English was decidedly not his first language.

"I help you?" he asked.

"I'd like a pretzel, please," I said.

He handed me a gigantic pretzel braid ($2.50) instead of a regular pretzel twist ($1.25) but hey, I love my Philly soft pretzels. Then he asked, "Why you so beautiful?"

I held out a $5 bill and flashed what I hoped was a "please stop being an ass and give me my change now" smile. But Mr. Smooth Soft Pretzel Man ignored the five and repeated: "why you so beautiful?"

"Genetics, I guess," I said, waving the five a little.

"You have lucky man," he said, finally taking my money and opening the register oh-so-slowly. "Give me his number. I call him." Smoooooth.

"There's no man," I said.

"Give me his number. I call him."

"I don't have a man," I repeated.

"I don't understand."

"No man," I said. "I have a woman."

"I don't understand."

"Never mind," I said. I held out my hand for my change.

He took the hint about the change, but not the one about his not being my type. He asked for my--excuse me, my nonexistent man's--phone number again, but I thanked him for the pretzel and walked away to join my wife and child.

Weekly reader

As a general rule I do not like fantasy as a genre. I also do not care much for science fiction, except for real old-school stuff like Asimov and silly stuff like Douglas Adams (both of whom I started reading when I was about 10). At one point I did like both of these genres, but that point has long been over.

However, I've recently discovered Terry Pratchett, who seems to be to fantasy what Douglas Adams is to science fiction. Over the past few weeks I've read Wyrd Sisters and Witches Abroad, both of which I enjoyed thoroughly. (I'm a little embarrassed that it took me so long to get through them, as normally I'd be able to polish both off in a single afternoon--but "normally" here means "if I did not have a small baby.")

For Christmas, Chip sent us Hogfather. (Thanks, Chip!) I started it today. Anyway, the whole point of this entry is that I would like to share the following quote, from its page 24:

"Getting an education was a bit like a communicable sexual disease. It made you unsuitable for a lot of jobs and then you had the urge to pass it on."

Genius, man. Freaking genius.

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.