I set up a new blog at InsaneJournal (as Blogger doesn't have the ability to filter posts) because there are some rants that just aren't suitable for public consumption.
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label personal. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Back from the deadish
I am fighting my way back to the land of the living, or at least what passes for it nowadays. There's probably a lot of things I should catch up on for y'all, but that's not gonna happen this post. (And I'm discovering all these cute 'improvements' as I reanimate ... sigh.)
Friday, September 5, 2008
On a Personal Note: Blargh
Today was one of those days at work that definitely call for a "TGIF." Maybe a "WTF" and a "DIAF" too.
(Acronyms)
I have a simple job I like very much: coordinate enrollment of physicians in health plans. Mostly I create and track paper, a comfortable endeavor for someone like me who probably has OCD (but hesitates to cop to it because it would interfere with my dedication to being lazy). The problem with my lovely job is there are two faces of health plans: HMOs and PPOs. The HMO side is a breeze. The PPO side is nothing less than a nightmare.
PPO Nightmare
So all week I worked on getting an update ready to send out to the health plans. A few new applications, a couple of resubmissions, a change of address, and some terminations. It took longer to do than it should because (1) I am having a hell of a time adjusting to the medication I'm on and (2) all of the applications had expired licenses and I had to wait until I got updated copies from the office managers.
The "temporary" director signs the cover letters for these updates. I had printed them out Thursday afternoon and left them for him to sign. He signed them all, then when I went in this morning to get them, he asks why a particular doctor isn't listed in the summary of changes. Because of the medication I couldn't remember off-hand and had to go back to my desk to check the database; meanwhile he's talking at me about "he's on staff, he was approved by the Board, why aren't we sending out his application?"
Finally I get words in edgewise: "Because his license is expired and I haven't gotten the new one."
AND THEN he has the GALL to ask me, "Well, did you call them?"
The only reason I didn't quit right then was because two things tangled on my tongue: "No, dumbass, I figured I'd just throw his application away and pretend I knew nothing about it forevermore," and "You know what? YOU call them, I quit."
The PPO doesn't pay me a cent for the work I do, and easily 85% of my workday is filled with PPO crap. I'm done. Monday I'm talking to the HMO director (the HMO is the side that actually pays the temp agency to have me there) and let her know that either the PPO has to (1) get a director, (2) demand accountability from the health plans if not the doctors and (3) start paying me, or I have to no longer do PPO work there. Otherwise I have to quit. I can't handle that level of stress at work with everything else I am trying to manage; I'll be damned if I do it for another week for free.
Tune in tomorrow when I should be less cranky and getting to some overdue posts on August's Top Droppers, great blogs I found through EC, and my paranormal adventure.
(Acronyms)
I have a simple job I like very much: coordinate enrollment of physicians in health plans. Mostly I create and track paper, a comfortable endeavor for someone like me who probably has OCD (but hesitates to cop to it because it would interfere with my dedication to being lazy). The problem with my lovely job is there are two faces of health plans: HMOs and PPOs. The HMO side is a breeze. The PPO side is nothing less than a nightmare.
PPO Nightmare
For starters, there is no director in charge of the PPO as there is for the HMO. That got dumped "temporarily" on a guy who is already overworked about 12 years ago. So the day-to-day stuff falls to me (which now, after five years, is fine, although at first it was scary as hell). Only that guy won't just let me handle it. He waits - lurks even - until the last possible minute, then second-guesses, pointlessly badgers, and nit-picks every little thing.
Four years ago, the president of the PPO Medical Advisory Board (the group of doctors that approves new physicians for membership in the PPO) died. He has yet to be replaced. He was the guy who signed the contracts, so I have four years of contracts, unsigned, waiting for either his replacement or the end of civilization, cluttering up my workspace.
The health plans keep buying each other, merging, splitting - and in all that, they lose our doctors. Just *poof* - gone. So I have to resubmit applications years later, and meanwhile their claims get rejected and they don't get paid for the work they've done, and their office managers call me - not the health plans - screaming or in tears or both to fix it.
And the doctors themselves do all sorts of cute footwork - going independent, then joining a different group, then going solo again, all without mentioning to us - and their claims get rejected and there is screaming and tears ... or they move their offices and don't mention it, and claims get rejected, and ... you get the idea.
Four years ago, the president of the PPO Medical Advisory Board (the group of doctors that approves new physicians for membership in the PPO) died. He has yet to be replaced. He was the guy who signed the contracts, so I have four years of contracts, unsigned, waiting for either his replacement or the end of civilization, cluttering up my workspace.
The health plans keep buying each other, merging, splitting - and in all that, they lose our doctors. Just *poof* - gone. So I have to resubmit applications years later, and meanwhile their claims get rejected and they don't get paid for the work they've done, and their office managers call me - not the health plans - screaming or in tears or both to fix it.
And the doctors themselves do all sorts of cute footwork - going independent, then joining a different group, then going solo again, all without mentioning to us - and their claims get rejected and there is screaming and tears ... or they move their offices and don't mention it, and claims get rejected, and ... you get the idea.
So all week I worked on getting an update ready to send out to the health plans. A few new applications, a couple of resubmissions, a change of address, and some terminations. It took longer to do than it should because (1) I am having a hell of a time adjusting to the medication I'm on and (2) all of the applications had expired licenses and I had to wait until I got updated copies from the office managers.
The "temporary" director signs the cover letters for these updates. I had printed them out Thursday afternoon and left them for him to sign. He signed them all, then when I went in this morning to get them, he asks why a particular doctor isn't listed in the summary of changes. Because of the medication I couldn't remember off-hand and had to go back to my desk to check the database; meanwhile he's talking at me about "he's on staff, he was approved by the Board, why aren't we sending out his application?"
Finally I get words in edgewise: "Because his license is expired and I haven't gotten the new one."
AND THEN he has the GALL to ask me, "Well, did you call them?"
The only reason I didn't quit right then was because two things tangled on my tongue: "No, dumbass, I figured I'd just throw his application away and pretend I knew nothing about it forevermore," and "You know what? YOU call them, I quit."
The PPO doesn't pay me a cent for the work I do, and easily 85% of my workday is filled with PPO crap. I'm done. Monday I'm talking to the HMO director (the HMO is the side that actually pays the temp agency to have me there) and let her know that either the PPO has to (1) get a director, (2) demand accountability from the health plans if not the doctors and (3) start paying me, or I have to no longer do PPO work there. Otherwise I have to quit. I can't handle that level of stress at work with everything else I am trying to manage; I'll be damned if I do it for another week for free.
Tune in tomorrow when I should be less cranky and getting to some overdue posts on August's Top Droppers, great blogs I found through EC, and my paranormal adventure.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
And Freedom For All: Including Possums!
Last night had a bonfire in the yard ... the big dog, Kitty, spent the night hiding from fireworks in the house, but as always the smaller dog, Buddy, stayed nearby.
His genetic memory of bird-dogging is sometimes quite present - despite Big Al's certainty, dogs certainly can look up, and he often goes a bit berzerk trying to get me to hunt something he has spotted in a tree or on a roof.
Last night, however, he was whimpering and wurfling ("wurfle" being a distinct sound he makes when he has something important, albeit whiny, to say) insistently by the gate no matter how many times I tried to calm him down. Finally I went to show him there was nothing there for him to be wurlfng about - and to my surprise there was a young opossum in the little mulberry tree, looking down at me with some clear dismay.
I put Buddy in the house for a bit to give the possum time to bug out, but when we checked again it was still there, higher up, with nowhere to go. So I went around to the neighbor's yard and had the kids push on the tree so I could reach a branch and pull the upper part down, and got hold of the possum's tail.
Years ago I got to take care of a baby possum for a couple of weeks after its mother had been accidentally killed on the farm where I rode horses. After that I saved an adult that our dog had cornered; I know that they'd rather play dead in most cases than bite or struggle. But this one, after the initial shock of being gently extracted from the branches, curled up along itself to press its small nose against my fingers, as if it was trying to decide if the fall would be worth the freedom after a good chomp.
Rather than just carrying it possum-style, I cradled its back with my other hand and carried it to the front yard where there was enough light for the kids to get a good look, and put it down in the plantains to regain its equilibrium. When it didn't run off right away, the kids started clamoring about keeping it for a pet; I firmly (but not without some wistfulness) told them wild animals are not to be kept as pets, because no matter how well one can meet their physical needs, they will suffer psychologically from being kept from their freedom.
I had forgotten how soft and fuzzy possum fur is; I petted it between the ears and down the back until it had decided we weren't going to eat it and it was ready to amble off. I told the kids it was a marsupial, and we talked about pouched mammals and other oddball critters. They wanted to pet it too, but I had to say no: I never for a moment believed it would bite me, but if it did I knew I could live with the consequences (including rabies shots), but if they had gotten nipped I would never forgive myself.
When it left it made a bee-line (or possum-line) for the closest garbage can. It was young, a little thin, and quite possibly of the brood that had been tormenting the neighbor by taking up residence in his garage. And now I wonder: will it stay far away now, having been treed by a dog, hauled out of that tree, and gawked at; or will it return, possibly with friends, to show off that it had this amazing (by possum standards) experience and ambled off unscathed to tell the tale?
Whichever the case, I do hope our little fuzzy visitor does well for itself, and that my kids will remember that freedom is just a word unless it is an Idea shared equally to all blameless creatures, great and small.
His genetic memory of bird-dogging is sometimes quite present - despite Big Al's certainty, dogs certainly can look up, and he often goes a bit berzerk trying to get me to hunt something he has spotted in a tree or on a roof.
Last night, however, he was whimpering and wurfling ("wurfle" being a distinct sound he makes when he has something important, albeit whiny, to say) insistently by the gate no matter how many times I tried to calm him down. Finally I went to show him there was nothing there for him to be wurlfng about - and to my surprise there was a young opossum in the little mulberry tree, looking down at me with some clear dismay.
I put Buddy in the house for a bit to give the possum time to bug out, but when we checked again it was still there, higher up, with nowhere to go. So I went around to the neighbor's yard and had the kids push on the tree so I could reach a branch and pull the upper part down, and got hold of the possum's tail.
Years ago I got to take care of a baby possum for a couple of weeks after its mother had been accidentally killed on the farm where I rode horses. After that I saved an adult that our dog had cornered; I know that they'd rather play dead in most cases than bite or struggle. But this one, after the initial shock of being gently extracted from the branches, curled up along itself to press its small nose against my fingers, as if it was trying to decide if the fall would be worth the freedom after a good chomp.
Rather than just carrying it possum-style, I cradled its back with my other hand and carried it to the front yard where there was enough light for the kids to get a good look, and put it down in the plantains to regain its equilibrium. When it didn't run off right away, the kids started clamoring about keeping it for a pet; I firmly (but not without some wistfulness) told them wild animals are not to be kept as pets, because no matter how well one can meet their physical needs, they will suffer psychologically from being kept from their freedom.
I had forgotten how soft and fuzzy possum fur is; I petted it between the ears and down the back until it had decided we weren't going to eat it and it was ready to amble off. I told the kids it was a marsupial, and we talked about pouched mammals and other oddball critters. They wanted to pet it too, but I had to say no: I never for a moment believed it would bite me, but if it did I knew I could live with the consequences (including rabies shots), but if they had gotten nipped I would never forgive myself.
When it left it made a bee-line (or possum-line) for the closest garbage can. It was young, a little thin, and quite possibly of the brood that had been tormenting the neighbor by taking up residence in his garage. And now I wonder: will it stay far away now, having been treed by a dog, hauled out of that tree, and gawked at; or will it return, possibly with friends, to show off that it had this amazing (by possum standards) experience and ambled off unscathed to tell the tale?
Whichever the case, I do hope our little fuzzy visitor does well for itself, and that my kids will remember that freedom is just a word unless it is an Idea shared equally to all blameless creatures, great and small.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Wild Ink'd!
Got my first tattoo yesterday afternoon:
2 more pix:
The labyrinth has special symbolic meanings for me, as well as being a practical choice for permanent body art: I now can "walk" it with my fingertip whenever I need a moment to reflect, calm down, or refocus.
The simplicity was also a good choice, being my first tattoo and one of the first done by the artist. (I am far happier with the result than he is, but he's a perfectionist and I just wanted my labyrinth, dammit. :) )
2 more pix:
The labyrinth has special symbolic meanings for me, as well as being a practical choice for permanent body art: I now can "walk" it with my fingertip whenever I need a moment to reflect, calm down, or refocus.
The simplicity was also a good choice, being my first tattoo and one of the first done by the artist. (I am far happier with the result than he is, but he's a perfectionist and I just wanted my labyrinth, dammit. :) )
Saturday, June 14, 2008
On a Personal Note
No YouTube vid for tomorrow, Sunday, June 15, 2008, due to a death in the family. Regularly scheduled content additions will continue Wednesday, June 18, 2008.
Some details, and thoughts
"Grandma Dorothy" was born June 13, 1923. She graduated nursing school in 1944 and shortly thereafter worked for, then married, "Doctor Grandpa." Together they had eight kids, six boys and two girls, of whom my father was the third.
Growing up, the three eldest boys had a life markedly different from that of the five that followed. A polite way to sum it up would be to say that Grandpa was very strict. He was also my first example of pharmaceutical hostage-taking, freely writing prescriptions for Grandma to keep her mellow and compliant. A life on these drugs essentially ruined all chance she had for a healthy body, and I always knew her as fat, though there were photos to prove this had not always been the case.
In the early sixties, they moved to Hillside. Her parents had a little farmette there, and sold the neighboring lot to their son-in-law to build a house. That was the house I will always think of as my grandparents', a grand split-level home built into the hill with a walk-out basement. And at Great-grandma Aurelia's next door was the huge yard and in-ground pool. Most weekends of my childhood were spent there, visiting grandparents and Great-grandma and grandma's sister Jeannie, who was taking care of their mother.
In summertime, we'd get out to Hillside in the midmorning, spend the day swimming, visiting, running about and swimming some more. It was like a party every weekend, my aunts and uncles bringing my cousins, my dad's cousins bringing their kids, and everyone happy and at ease in the joy of family and recreation.
After Great-grandma died, Jeannie took over the property. Then came the summer everything fell apart. Jeannie went on a trip, and while she was gone Grandpa decided that the diving board for the pool, and the fence on that side, was on his property. He had some of his younger sons come while Jeannie was away and remove the board and move the fence.
This asinine act forged a rift. Siblings had to choose sides; most of them agreed with Grandpa, his eldest son (my Uncle Ray), and my dad agreed with their aunt Jeannie, and the second son simply decided he wanted nothing to do with any of it and refused to speak to anyone for a while.
It was heartbreaking for me as a child, to see my cousins visiting Grandma and knowing they couldn't cross that imaginary line into Aunt Jeannie's yard to play. That was the year I started hearing the ugly truths about Grandpa, how he treated his family, and how much Grandma's siblings despised him for ripping their family apart.
All because of a stupid diving board. Of course the board wasn't really the issue: it was just a physical representation of Grandpa's determination to be right and have his way, no matter what the cost to those around him.
As time went on, the rift was healed to some extent; when Aunt Jeannie died, it seemed that summer that they would all forget the stupid fight and we could all be a family again. But reconciliation didn't last long, and soon the family slipped back into its quiet division.
Once I hit 18 and moved out of my parents' home, I didn't see much of my dad's family. I didn't want to; older and wiser, I knew much of my dad's troubles with his own family were directly caused by what his parents had put him through, and I had a hard time forgiving them for that. I did miss my cousins, and many of my aunts, whose only sins had been being the children of or married to the uncles that followed Grandpa no matter what.
We did make the trip north to Wisconsin for their 50th wedding anniversary, and to Berwyn for Grandma's eightieth birthday in 2003. That birthday was something: eight kids and their spouses, 24 grandkids, and four great-grandchildren in attendance, along with other family members and friends, made for a very crowded banquet hall.
So much of Grandma's life was overshadowed by Grandpa...
She died late Monday, June 9, 2008. My dad called me a little before 6:30 AM Tuesday to let me know. And I cried, not because I felt any grief for her or myself, but because, after everything, my father was clearly torn up to know that his mother was gone, and he would never see her alive again.
So on Thursday I made the trek to Hillside once again, to be there for my dad. And of course Grandpa was there, mostly deaf, getting infirm, but still the same old curmudgeon, freely criticizing his three eldest sons and their sons, even as his wife lay before him in her casket.
It did give my cousin Jason, only child of Uncle Ray, an epiphany to his father's "pinched look," to know he had to silently accept the abuse about his weight (hefty but not fat), his habits, his wife (who wisely stayed in New Mexico). My brother, who had already learned this, cheerfully said "yes, Grandpa," to every slam and slur, and let it go without a second thought. Not so for my cousin David (only son of the uncle who, back when, opted to ignore the whole family rather than get dragged into a fight with them), who more than once simply walked away when Grandpa started to talk to him, giving the excuse of having small children to tend to.
Grandma was interred the next day, her birthday, Friday the 13th. We actually started off the service at the funeral home with a verse of "Happy Birthday," cruelly ironic icing for the whole morbid ritual. After the singing stopped, a small hopeful voice of one of the great-grandkids piped up from the back: "Are we gonna have cake?"
After the funerary rite at the church, we all went to the gravesite, and once the casket was lowered and the lid placed onto the liner, the family milled about, pointing out the marker stones of other dearly departed; some of us went to the section for "the Innocents," where children are buried, to find graves of those unfortunate infants that didn't survive very long. We could not find the marker for my mother's sister, who had been struck and killed by a car when she was ten, but we did find, in my mother's family's area, the grave of her youngest brother, also killed in a vehicle mishap in 1995.
Then it was lunch at a local restaurant, and by three we were at Uncle Ray's, where most of us (who weren't driving) commenced to drinking. I spent most of the next four hours outside. We talked freely of everything and anything except Grandma and Grandpa, and I got to remember that sometimes, family can be good, and soothing for the soul.
When my parents were leaving, my dad got a little teary as he told my brother and I how much it meant to him that we had been there both days for him. On the long ride home, my brother admitted he didn't have a favorite memory of Grandma, and I vented a bit of inherited venom about Grandpa.
At the church, I did write a poem about her, politically-correct but pointed just the same:
"Grandma Smiled"
Grandma smiled
While cousins cried
And aunts sighed
Grandma smiled
If a kid's wild ride
Made uncles chide
Grandma smiled
Deer gobbled corn
Made Grandpa forlorn
Still, Grandma smiled
In her heart and her mind
As the clock did unwind
The truth of her peace
Kept her always at ease
And she smiled.
Some details, and thoughts
"Grandma Dorothy" was born June 13, 1923. She graduated nursing school in 1944 and shortly thereafter worked for, then married, "Doctor Grandpa." Together they had eight kids, six boys and two girls, of whom my father was the third.
Growing up, the three eldest boys had a life markedly different from that of the five that followed. A polite way to sum it up would be to say that Grandpa was very strict. He was also my first example of pharmaceutical hostage-taking, freely writing prescriptions for Grandma to keep her mellow and compliant. A life on these drugs essentially ruined all chance she had for a healthy body, and I always knew her as fat, though there were photos to prove this had not always been the case.
In the early sixties, they moved to Hillside. Her parents had a little farmette there, and sold the neighboring lot to their son-in-law to build a house. That was the house I will always think of as my grandparents', a grand split-level home built into the hill with a walk-out basement. And at Great-grandma Aurelia's next door was the huge yard and in-ground pool. Most weekends of my childhood were spent there, visiting grandparents and Great-grandma and grandma's sister Jeannie, who was taking care of their mother.
In summertime, we'd get out to Hillside in the midmorning, spend the day swimming, visiting, running about and swimming some more. It was like a party every weekend, my aunts and uncles bringing my cousins, my dad's cousins bringing their kids, and everyone happy and at ease in the joy of family and recreation.
After Great-grandma died, Jeannie took over the property. Then came the summer everything fell apart. Jeannie went on a trip, and while she was gone Grandpa decided that the diving board for the pool, and the fence on that side, was on his property. He had some of his younger sons come while Jeannie was away and remove the board and move the fence.
This asinine act forged a rift. Siblings had to choose sides; most of them agreed with Grandpa, his eldest son (my Uncle Ray), and my dad agreed with their aunt Jeannie, and the second son simply decided he wanted nothing to do with any of it and refused to speak to anyone for a while.
It was heartbreaking for me as a child, to see my cousins visiting Grandma and knowing they couldn't cross that imaginary line into Aunt Jeannie's yard to play. That was the year I started hearing the ugly truths about Grandpa, how he treated his family, and how much Grandma's siblings despised him for ripping their family apart.
All because of a stupid diving board. Of course the board wasn't really the issue: it was just a physical representation of Grandpa's determination to be right and have his way, no matter what the cost to those around him.
As time went on, the rift was healed to some extent; when Aunt Jeannie died, it seemed that summer that they would all forget the stupid fight and we could all be a family again. But reconciliation didn't last long, and soon the family slipped back into its quiet division.
Once I hit 18 and moved out of my parents' home, I didn't see much of my dad's family. I didn't want to; older and wiser, I knew much of my dad's troubles with his own family were directly caused by what his parents had put him through, and I had a hard time forgiving them for that. I did miss my cousins, and many of my aunts, whose only sins had been being the children of or married to the uncles that followed Grandpa no matter what.
We did make the trip north to Wisconsin for their 50th wedding anniversary, and to Berwyn for Grandma's eightieth birthday in 2003. That birthday was something: eight kids and their spouses, 24 grandkids, and four great-grandchildren in attendance, along with other family members and friends, made for a very crowded banquet hall.
So much of Grandma's life was overshadowed by Grandpa...
She died late Monday, June 9, 2008. My dad called me a little before 6:30 AM Tuesday to let me know. And I cried, not because I felt any grief for her or myself, but because, after everything, my father was clearly torn up to know that his mother was gone, and he would never see her alive again.
So on Thursday I made the trek to Hillside once again, to be there for my dad. And of course Grandpa was there, mostly deaf, getting infirm, but still the same old curmudgeon, freely criticizing his three eldest sons and their sons, even as his wife lay before him in her casket.
It did give my cousin Jason, only child of Uncle Ray, an epiphany to his father's "pinched look," to know he had to silently accept the abuse about his weight (hefty but not fat), his habits, his wife (who wisely stayed in New Mexico). My brother, who had already learned this, cheerfully said "yes, Grandpa," to every slam and slur, and let it go without a second thought. Not so for my cousin David (only son of the uncle who, back when, opted to ignore the whole family rather than get dragged into a fight with them), who more than once simply walked away when Grandpa started to talk to him, giving the excuse of having small children to tend to.
Grandma was interred the next day, her birthday, Friday the 13th. We actually started off the service at the funeral home with a verse of "Happy Birthday," cruelly ironic icing for the whole morbid ritual. After the singing stopped, a small hopeful voice of one of the great-grandkids piped up from the back: "Are we gonna have cake?"
After the funerary rite at the church, we all went to the gravesite, and once the casket was lowered and the lid placed onto the liner, the family milled about, pointing out the marker stones of other dearly departed; some of us went to the section for "the Innocents," where children are buried, to find graves of those unfortunate infants that didn't survive very long. We could not find the marker for my mother's sister, who had been struck and killed by a car when she was ten, but we did find, in my mother's family's area, the grave of her youngest brother, also killed in a vehicle mishap in 1995.
Then it was lunch at a local restaurant, and by three we were at Uncle Ray's, where most of us (who weren't driving) commenced to drinking. I spent most of the next four hours outside. We talked freely of everything and anything except Grandma and Grandpa, and I got to remember that sometimes, family can be good, and soothing for the soul.
When my parents were leaving, my dad got a little teary as he told my brother and I how much it meant to him that we had been there both days for him. On the long ride home, my brother admitted he didn't have a favorite memory of Grandma, and I vented a bit of inherited venom about Grandpa.
At the church, I did write a poem about her, politically-correct but pointed just the same:
"Grandma Smiled"
Grandma smiled
While cousins cried
And aunts sighed
Grandma smiled
If a kid's wild ride
Made uncles chide
Grandma smiled
Deer gobbled corn
Made Grandpa forlorn
Still, Grandma smiled
In her heart and her mind
As the clock did unwind
The truth of her peace
Kept her always at ease
And she smiled.
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WTF: "What The F!ck"
DIAF: Die In A Fire