Steven Harper's Blog, page 68
February 7, 2018
Stoner Update
So I've been seeing this new urologist, Dr. H--. The relationship isn't working out all that well. I tried him over Dr. L-- partly because he was recommended to me and partly because his office is only 15 minutes away, whereas Dr. L-- takes up to an hour.
But . . .
The second time I went to see him, it was to have x-rays and other scans interpreted and discussed. When I arrived--early--to my appointment, I waited 45 minutes in the waiting room past my scheduled time. At last I was shown into an exam room, where I waited another 15 minutes. At last Dr. H-- came in and said that my scans hadn't arrived at his office, so there was nothing he could tell me right then. I was furious. Not only had a lost an entire afternoon (much of it biting my nails because this shit makes me upset to begin with), I now had to drive all the way home in rush hour traffic. For nothing. They couldn't even be bothered to call me and say there was no reason to come in yet. And then his office charged for the visit because they'd "taken my vital signs," so it qualified as a full visit. I'm still fighting them over that.
At the next appointment, Dr. H-- had finally gotten the scans and they showed stones, but the scans were older than he would have liked, so he wanted me to have another MRI and come back yet again to see if they've moved. He couldn't explain why I keep having twinges of pain. I knew I'd need the MRI anyway, so I agreed to this.
I got the MRI done and this time I called--twice--to confirm the scans had arrived before I went in. This time I waited over an hour in the waiting room. I asked twice at the reception desk how far behind they were, and got a vague, "We have patients ahead of you." I was just getting up to walk out when the nurse called me in. I waited another 15 minutes in an exam room before Dr. H-- came in.
Without preamble, he said I still have kidney issues still on both sides. The left has a speck of a stone in it. The right has a much larger one in it, one that's iffy on its chances of passing on its own. He showed me the MRI.
And that was all he said. I waited a moment. Was he going to make a recommendation? An interpretation? Nope. He said nothing.
"What do we do?" I finally asked.
"The one on the right isn't blocking anything right now," he said.
Again, I waited. No further response. He didn't say it would probably be safe to wait on taking it out. He didn't say it would be best to remove it. He said nothing.
Finally, I said, "Do you think we should take it out?"
"We could hit it with lithotripsy," he said.
Okay, now I was getting unhappy. This guy makes no recommendations, no discussions of treatment, nothing. He just recites facts.
So I said, "Maybe we should take it out. I mean, if it moves, it could easily =start= blocking something, and I'd back in the ER screaming in agony again, right?"
"We can schedule that," he said, and made a note on his clipboard. "Talk to the reception on the way out. They'll have the scheduler call you."
And our time was up.
At the front desk, I got into a polite fight with the receptionist who claimed I owed co-pays for two previous visits I'd already paid for. Once that was resolved, I asked about getting on the surgery schedule.
"The scheduler will call you in the next couple days," she said.
Wait--what? In every other case--and I'm an unfortunate expert, here--the patient calls the scheduler once the doctor puts in the order for surgery. I mean, I can't answer my phone when I'm at work, so a scheduler can only call me after I'm done for the day. Also, I knew Dr. H-- performs litho on Fridays, and I wanted a specific Friday, if possible. I'm completely out of sick days at work, thanks to these fucking stones, and if I'm out again, I get docked a huge amount of money. However, a Friday coming soon is a half day, and if I can go then, it'll minimize the damage. But if the scheduler waits to call ME, the schedule might get filled up with other people, and I'll be screwed. I'd much rather call THEM.
But the receptionist wouldn't give me the information to call the scheduler. Finally, I left.
Four days went by, and the scheduler didn't call.
I finally called Dr. H--'s office to ask about this. The receptionist clicked around on her computer and--ta da!--turns out Dr. H-- didn't officially put in the order for surgery. So no call. I politely asked this to be taken care of, and she said to call back the next day if I hadn't heard anything.
Today (the next day), I still got no call. So I hit Dr. H--'s office yet again. "Oh!" the receptionist twittered. "You're the third person today to call about being scheduled for litho. Dr. H-- hasn't written any orders yet. We have to get on him."
I explained that I was trying to get on for a specific day.
"Well, the hospital only has the equipment on certain days," she said.
"I know that," I said. "Dr. H-- does these things on Fridays, when the hospital has the equipment. I'm hoping to get on the schedule for a certain Friday so I don't get docked at work."
"We'll have to see what the scheduler says," she replied mysteriously, and hung up.
Dr. H--'s office is enormously inefficient, and Dr. H-- himself leaves quite a lot to be desired, I'm afraid. I'm glad I'm not in huge pain; I don't feel I can count on him or his office for help.
Meanwhile, I have a previously-scheduled appointment in early March with Dr. L--. Unless Dr. H-- can give me the date I need for surgery, I may as well just go back to Dr. L--.
comments
But . . .
The second time I went to see him, it was to have x-rays and other scans interpreted and discussed. When I arrived--early--to my appointment, I waited 45 minutes in the waiting room past my scheduled time. At last I was shown into an exam room, where I waited another 15 minutes. At last Dr. H-- came in and said that my scans hadn't arrived at his office, so there was nothing he could tell me right then. I was furious. Not only had a lost an entire afternoon (much of it biting my nails because this shit makes me upset to begin with), I now had to drive all the way home in rush hour traffic. For nothing. They couldn't even be bothered to call me and say there was no reason to come in yet. And then his office charged for the visit because they'd "taken my vital signs," so it qualified as a full visit. I'm still fighting them over that.
At the next appointment, Dr. H-- had finally gotten the scans and they showed stones, but the scans were older than he would have liked, so he wanted me to have another MRI and come back yet again to see if they've moved. He couldn't explain why I keep having twinges of pain. I knew I'd need the MRI anyway, so I agreed to this.
I got the MRI done and this time I called--twice--to confirm the scans had arrived before I went in. This time I waited over an hour in the waiting room. I asked twice at the reception desk how far behind they were, and got a vague, "We have patients ahead of you." I was just getting up to walk out when the nurse called me in. I waited another 15 minutes in an exam room before Dr. H-- came in.
Without preamble, he said I still have kidney issues still on both sides. The left has a speck of a stone in it. The right has a much larger one in it, one that's iffy on its chances of passing on its own. He showed me the MRI.
And that was all he said. I waited a moment. Was he going to make a recommendation? An interpretation? Nope. He said nothing.
"What do we do?" I finally asked.
"The one on the right isn't blocking anything right now," he said.
Again, I waited. No further response. He didn't say it would probably be safe to wait on taking it out. He didn't say it would be best to remove it. He said nothing.
Finally, I said, "Do you think we should take it out?"
"We could hit it with lithotripsy," he said.
Okay, now I was getting unhappy. This guy makes no recommendations, no discussions of treatment, nothing. He just recites facts.
So I said, "Maybe we should take it out. I mean, if it moves, it could easily =start= blocking something, and I'd back in the ER screaming in agony again, right?"
"We can schedule that," he said, and made a note on his clipboard. "Talk to the reception on the way out. They'll have the scheduler call you."
And our time was up.
At the front desk, I got into a polite fight with the receptionist who claimed I owed co-pays for two previous visits I'd already paid for. Once that was resolved, I asked about getting on the surgery schedule.
"The scheduler will call you in the next couple days," she said.
Wait--what? In every other case--and I'm an unfortunate expert, here--the patient calls the scheduler once the doctor puts in the order for surgery. I mean, I can't answer my phone when I'm at work, so a scheduler can only call me after I'm done for the day. Also, I knew Dr. H-- performs litho on Fridays, and I wanted a specific Friday, if possible. I'm completely out of sick days at work, thanks to these fucking stones, and if I'm out again, I get docked a huge amount of money. However, a Friday coming soon is a half day, and if I can go then, it'll minimize the damage. But if the scheduler waits to call ME, the schedule might get filled up with other people, and I'll be screwed. I'd much rather call THEM.
But the receptionist wouldn't give me the information to call the scheduler. Finally, I left.
Four days went by, and the scheduler didn't call.
I finally called Dr. H--'s office to ask about this. The receptionist clicked around on her computer and--ta da!--turns out Dr. H-- didn't officially put in the order for surgery. So no call. I politely asked this to be taken care of, and she said to call back the next day if I hadn't heard anything.
Today (the next day), I still got no call. So I hit Dr. H--'s office yet again. "Oh!" the receptionist twittered. "You're the third person today to call about being scheduled for litho. Dr. H-- hasn't written any orders yet. We have to get on him."
I explained that I was trying to get on for a specific day.
"Well, the hospital only has the equipment on certain days," she said.
"I know that," I said. "Dr. H-- does these things on Fridays, when the hospital has the equipment. I'm hoping to get on the schedule for a certain Friday so I don't get docked at work."
"We'll have to see what the scheduler says," she replied mysteriously, and hung up.
Dr. H--'s office is enormously inefficient, and Dr. H-- himself leaves quite a lot to be desired, I'm afraid. I'm glad I'm not in huge pain; I don't feel I can count on him or his office for help.
Meanwhile, I have a previously-scheduled appointment in early March with Dr. L--. Unless Dr. H-- can give me the date I need for surgery, I may as well just go back to Dr. L--.
comments
January 25, 2018
Three Percent and Me
Eight years ago, the State of Michigan (led by the Tea Party GOP) decreed that public school teachers needed to pay an extra 3% of their paychecks into a retirement fund that would pay for their medical care after retirement. The new deduction would start immediately.
This was a lot of money. I lost more than $100 per paycheck. And I felt it. I was newly divorced, had three sons to raise by myself, was paying off debts that arose from the divorce, and now I was going to be short $200 per month. $200 was about what I was paying in utilities. A lot of teachers were in the same boat.
The Michigan Education Association sued. The law, said the MEA, was unconstitutional. The constitution expressly forbids levying a tax against a specific class of people, and the 3% was a tax only teachers paid. Additionally, there was no provision in this new law that actually required the state to use that money for medical care. This meant the state could grab the money and use it for literally anything, and no one could require it to be paid back. The Attorney General and Governor Snide (sorry--Snyder) totally promised that the money would only be used for retiree health care, but since Snyder and the legislature had already raided the School Aid Fund more than once and diverted the money to non-educational uses, their promises were hollow and stale as an Easter basket bunny. So the lawsuit progressed.
After two and a half years in the courts (during which I lost 3% of my salary), the judge ruled for the MEA and put a stay on the law. Yay! The deductions stopped. Also yay! The MEA demanded that the money be returned to the teachers. But the state, led by AG Bill Schuette, immediately filed an appeal. Of course. The money wouldn't be returned until the appeals were exhausted, though the deductions would end.
The money was put into an interest-bearing escrow account. Keep watching that word "interest," kids. It'll be important later.
Bill Schuette spent thousands and thousands of taxpayer dollars defending this lawsuit. He appealed to the appellate court. Years (that's "year" with an -s) later, the appellate court ruled once again for the MEA and the teachers. The money, and the interest it had accrued, must be returned.
And Schuette appealed again. This time to the Michigan Supreme court. No money returned to teachers. By now, Schuette had spent money like water on this case, and was getting close to a million bucks spent defending a case he had lost twice. However, the Michigan Supreme Court was stacked with Republican judges, and he clearly hoped for a ruling in his favor. The MEA continued to fight, even as we all held our breath.
The Michigan Supreme Court sat on the case for nearly TWO YEARS. They didn't hold hearings, they didn't make rulings, nothing. And no law required them to. They sat, and sat, and sat.
And then at last they announced they would hear the case. Schuette and his expensive law team made their case, as did the MEA. The judges sent everyone home so they could think. Months and months passed.
Meanwhile, $550 million of teacher money sat in this interest-bearing escrow account, gathering interest.
Finally, the court issued a ruling. With little fanfare, a firm majority of the judges came down in favor of the MEA. The law was unconstitutional and was struck down. The money must be returned to the teachers, along with all the interest accrued.
Yay!
And then . . .
Bill Schuette played a "fuck you" card. He decided that nine months of the two and a half years of deductions weren't covered by the court's ruling, so the state would keep that money. So now the MEA has to sue yet again. Schuette is a nozzle on a douche bag filled with liquid sheep shit.
Meanwhile, we teachers all got individual notifications of how much money was being returned to us, along with how much eight years of interest was worth.
Me? I'm getting $5,100. Good. Finally.
But wait--now I have to pay taxes on it all at once. More than I would have if it had come to me in pieces. Way more.
And the interest on that money? The money that the court ruled was STOLEN from me? The money that was held in an interest-bearing account for EIGHT FUCKING YEARS?
$42.
You read that right. $4-fucking-2.
Why? Well, said the state with a sly grin, the interest on that account was 0.5%.
If you ever wanted proof of a GOP war on teachers and teacher unions, you have it here. The deliberate targeting of teachers for theft. The constant delays on a case the GOP knew it would lose. The "fuck you" cards they keep playing.
0.5%? What the fuck kind of account gives 0.5% interest? None, that's what. (Michigan law requires at least 2.9% for such things, by the way.) Not to mention that if =I= had put that money into my own retirement account for eight years, I'd have earned a minimum of 6%. Over EIGHT YEARS.
The Detroit Free Press reported on it here. https://www.freep.com/story/news/education/2018/01/24/michigan-teachers-interest-refund/1059408001/
No, I'm not happy to get the money back. (Saying "Thank you for the money" is like telling the guy who stole your car and returned it eight years later, "Thank you for bringing it back." You may as well say, "Would you like to fuck me with a pitchfork while you're at it?") I'm pissed that the money was stolen in the first place, and I'm pissed that some of the money is STILL MISSING, and I'm pissed that the state is playing monkey games with my money.
The GOP is a sickness. It needs to be ended. The GOP is ruining our people, our state, and our country, and here's tangible proof of it.
comments
This was a lot of money. I lost more than $100 per paycheck. And I felt it. I was newly divorced, had three sons to raise by myself, was paying off debts that arose from the divorce, and now I was going to be short $200 per month. $200 was about what I was paying in utilities. A lot of teachers were in the same boat.
The Michigan Education Association sued. The law, said the MEA, was unconstitutional. The constitution expressly forbids levying a tax against a specific class of people, and the 3% was a tax only teachers paid. Additionally, there was no provision in this new law that actually required the state to use that money for medical care. This meant the state could grab the money and use it for literally anything, and no one could require it to be paid back. The Attorney General and Governor Snide (sorry--Snyder) totally promised that the money would only be used for retiree health care, but since Snyder and the legislature had already raided the School Aid Fund more than once and diverted the money to non-educational uses, their promises were hollow and stale as an Easter basket bunny. So the lawsuit progressed.
After two and a half years in the courts (during which I lost 3% of my salary), the judge ruled for the MEA and put a stay on the law. Yay! The deductions stopped. Also yay! The MEA demanded that the money be returned to the teachers. But the state, led by AG Bill Schuette, immediately filed an appeal. Of course. The money wouldn't be returned until the appeals were exhausted, though the deductions would end.
The money was put into an interest-bearing escrow account. Keep watching that word "interest," kids. It'll be important later.
Bill Schuette spent thousands and thousands of taxpayer dollars defending this lawsuit. He appealed to the appellate court. Years (that's "year" with an -s) later, the appellate court ruled once again for the MEA and the teachers. The money, and the interest it had accrued, must be returned.
And Schuette appealed again. This time to the Michigan Supreme court. No money returned to teachers. By now, Schuette had spent money like water on this case, and was getting close to a million bucks spent defending a case he had lost twice. However, the Michigan Supreme Court was stacked with Republican judges, and he clearly hoped for a ruling in his favor. The MEA continued to fight, even as we all held our breath.
The Michigan Supreme Court sat on the case for nearly TWO YEARS. They didn't hold hearings, they didn't make rulings, nothing. And no law required them to. They sat, and sat, and sat.
And then at last they announced they would hear the case. Schuette and his expensive law team made their case, as did the MEA. The judges sent everyone home so they could think. Months and months passed.
Meanwhile, $550 million of teacher money sat in this interest-bearing escrow account, gathering interest.
Finally, the court issued a ruling. With little fanfare, a firm majority of the judges came down in favor of the MEA. The law was unconstitutional and was struck down. The money must be returned to the teachers, along with all the interest accrued.
Yay!
And then . . .
Bill Schuette played a "fuck you" card. He decided that nine months of the two and a half years of deductions weren't covered by the court's ruling, so the state would keep that money. So now the MEA has to sue yet again. Schuette is a nozzle on a douche bag filled with liquid sheep shit.
Meanwhile, we teachers all got individual notifications of how much money was being returned to us, along with how much eight years of interest was worth.
Me? I'm getting $5,100. Good. Finally.
But wait--now I have to pay taxes on it all at once. More than I would have if it had come to me in pieces. Way more.
And the interest on that money? The money that the court ruled was STOLEN from me? The money that was held in an interest-bearing account for EIGHT FUCKING YEARS?
$42.
You read that right. $4-fucking-2.
Why? Well, said the state with a sly grin, the interest on that account was 0.5%.
If you ever wanted proof of a GOP war on teachers and teacher unions, you have it here. The deliberate targeting of teachers for theft. The constant delays on a case the GOP knew it would lose. The "fuck you" cards they keep playing.
0.5%? What the fuck kind of account gives 0.5% interest? None, that's what. (Michigan law requires at least 2.9% for such things, by the way.) Not to mention that if =I= had put that money into my own retirement account for eight years, I'd have earned a minimum of 6%. Over EIGHT YEARS.
The Detroit Free Press reported on it here. https://www.freep.com/story/news/education/2018/01/24/michigan-teachers-interest-refund/1059408001/
No, I'm not happy to get the money back. (Saying "Thank you for the money" is like telling the guy who stole your car and returned it eight years later, "Thank you for bringing it back." You may as well say, "Would you like to fuck me with a pitchfork while you're at it?") I'm pissed that the money was stolen in the first place, and I'm pissed that some of the money is STILL MISSING, and I'm pissed that the state is playing monkey games with my money.
The GOP is a sickness. It needs to be ended. The GOP is ruining our people, our state, and our country, and here's tangible proof of it.
comments
January 18, 2018
Global Entry and Me
I signed up and paid for the Global Entry pass, which would allow me to bypass security checks at the airport and to re-enter the United States more easily.
In addition to filling out an application on-line, you have to go in for an interview at US Customs and Border Patrol. In the Detroit Metro area, there are two offices, one at the airport and one at the Ambassador Bridge to Canada. I chose the bridge office to avoid paying airport parking and having to find my way to the Global Entry office in the massively large airport zone. My interview was today.
It was an adventure in driving to get there. The Ambassador Bridge area always has heavy traffic, and it's confusing to boot. I put the office's address in my GPS and headed out. It was simple until I actually tried to get to the office. The GPS put me on the opposite side of an imposing high wall that surrounded a compound of offices under the bridge. The GE building was no doubt in there, but there seemed to be no way inside.
Fortunately, I'd given myself extra time when I left for just such an emergency. I checked on-line and found a set of written directions that were slightly different from the GPS ones. Using these, I was able to find the place, but it was tricky. You head down the highway exit where a number of signs warn you that you're heading to Canada and there's no re-entry to the United States. Traffic crawls, and hundreds of semi trucks surround you, shoving you inevitably toward the bridge, but at the last minute, a little blue sign for Global Entry pops up and points you toward a half-hidden driveway.
Relieved, I dodged down it and encountered a huge rolling gate between a set of Jersey barriers. A stern, beefy border guard hustled up to my car. Before he could say anything, I rolled down my window and said I had an appointment at the GE office. Could he direct me? His demeanor softened a tiny bit. "Do you have a sheet?" he asked.
I didn't know what he meant--I'd made the appointment on-line. But I'd printed out the email that confirmed my appointment, so I held that up. He accepted this, opened the gate, and pointed me in the right direction. After a bit of hunting, I found a parking space and went into a low brick building.
Going into the Global Entry building is like entering a prison. You stand in an entry way, hit an intercom to ask for entry, and get buzzed in by a disembodied voice. Inside is a long, narrow room with a long line of stern-looking border guards in blue uniform at computer terminals. There were no civilians in the room. The first guard in the line told me to sign in and have a seat in some plastic chairs opposite the standing guards. Big signs admonished everyone to turn their cell phones off completely Or Else. I didn't feel like shutting down my phone, but the sign meant that I couldn't read or do anything else on my phone while I waited, so I perused some dull brochures about border security.
After a few minutes, the first guard called me up and confirmed I was there for a Global Entry interview. I envisioned being led into an interrogation room or something, but the guard said he would take my fingerprints and ask me some questions right there. After he took my passport and ID, he clicked around on his computer. Were my fingers warm? Ready for printing? I allowed that they seemed warm enough.
"FINGERS TOGETHER, RIGHT HAND!" he barked like a drill sergeant. "PLACE THEM ON THE SCANNER! PRESS DOWN!"
Eh? I wasn't deaf. Then it came to me that he was supposed to act Serious and Intimidating. I actually found this kind of funny. Until now, he'd been personable, if standoffish, and the sudden change almost made me laugh. Besides, I recognized the barking trick. I've used it myself in the classroom many times. Hell, I practically =invented= the trick. You bark unexpectedly, and it startles people into complacency. I completely ignored his tone and instead held up my hand.
"Fingers like this?" I asked cheerfully.
This threw him off his stride, and he paused for half a beat. "LIKE THAT! FINGERS ON THE SCANNER! PRESS DOWN!"
I dutifully pressed on the little glass plate in front of his computer.
"FINGERS TOGETHER, LEFT HAND! PRESS DOWN!"
I resisted the urge to hum a little tune and pressed down.
"THUMBS OF BOTH HANDS ON THE SCANNER! STAND BACK WITH YOUR ARMS FULLY EXTENDED! PRESS DOWN!"
And I pressed down.
"Did it go through okay?" I asked as he clicked around.
"YES!" he barked, then more quietly, "yes. Now tell me." And he asked me some basic questions about myself, I assume to verify my identity. When he confirmed where I worked, he asked in a much more affable tone what I taught. I knew this trick, too--he was looking for suspicious demeanor. I told him I taught English to freshmen and seniors--I get them coming and going.
"You've got your hands full, then," he said with a little laugh.
"Final exams are this week," I replied. "The smell of panic is in the air."
By now, the drill sergeant barkiness had completely left him. He took my picture, then cheerfully told me that I was all set, and he gave me my traveler's ID number. It would be valid within 24 hours, in fact, if I wanted to use it quickly, and it was connected to my passport. And that was that. The whole interview took about two minutes.
Getting out of the place wasn't nearly as tricky. I asked the guard at the exit booth how to get back, and he told me in a Stern, Serious voice that I should follow the line of trucks crawling toward a particular road. They must have classes in being Stern and Serious. S&S101 or something. I followed the trucks, sternly and seriously.
And then the drive home. I survived the Stern and Serious Border Patrol and am now a confirmed, pre-checked traveler!
comments
In addition to filling out an application on-line, you have to go in for an interview at US Customs and Border Patrol. In the Detroit Metro area, there are two offices, one at the airport and one at the Ambassador Bridge to Canada. I chose the bridge office to avoid paying airport parking and having to find my way to the Global Entry office in the massively large airport zone. My interview was today.
It was an adventure in driving to get there. The Ambassador Bridge area always has heavy traffic, and it's confusing to boot. I put the office's address in my GPS and headed out. It was simple until I actually tried to get to the office. The GPS put me on the opposite side of an imposing high wall that surrounded a compound of offices under the bridge. The GE building was no doubt in there, but there seemed to be no way inside.
Fortunately, I'd given myself extra time when I left for just such an emergency. I checked on-line and found a set of written directions that were slightly different from the GPS ones. Using these, I was able to find the place, but it was tricky. You head down the highway exit where a number of signs warn you that you're heading to Canada and there's no re-entry to the United States. Traffic crawls, and hundreds of semi trucks surround you, shoving you inevitably toward the bridge, but at the last minute, a little blue sign for Global Entry pops up and points you toward a half-hidden driveway.
Relieved, I dodged down it and encountered a huge rolling gate between a set of Jersey barriers. A stern, beefy border guard hustled up to my car. Before he could say anything, I rolled down my window and said I had an appointment at the GE office. Could he direct me? His demeanor softened a tiny bit. "Do you have a sheet?" he asked.
I didn't know what he meant--I'd made the appointment on-line. But I'd printed out the email that confirmed my appointment, so I held that up. He accepted this, opened the gate, and pointed me in the right direction. After a bit of hunting, I found a parking space and went into a low brick building.
Going into the Global Entry building is like entering a prison. You stand in an entry way, hit an intercom to ask for entry, and get buzzed in by a disembodied voice. Inside is a long, narrow room with a long line of stern-looking border guards in blue uniform at computer terminals. There were no civilians in the room. The first guard in the line told me to sign in and have a seat in some plastic chairs opposite the standing guards. Big signs admonished everyone to turn their cell phones off completely Or Else. I didn't feel like shutting down my phone, but the sign meant that I couldn't read or do anything else on my phone while I waited, so I perused some dull brochures about border security.
After a few minutes, the first guard called me up and confirmed I was there for a Global Entry interview. I envisioned being led into an interrogation room or something, but the guard said he would take my fingerprints and ask me some questions right there. After he took my passport and ID, he clicked around on his computer. Were my fingers warm? Ready for printing? I allowed that they seemed warm enough.
"FINGERS TOGETHER, RIGHT HAND!" he barked like a drill sergeant. "PLACE THEM ON THE SCANNER! PRESS DOWN!"
Eh? I wasn't deaf. Then it came to me that he was supposed to act Serious and Intimidating. I actually found this kind of funny. Until now, he'd been personable, if standoffish, and the sudden change almost made me laugh. Besides, I recognized the barking trick. I've used it myself in the classroom many times. Hell, I practically =invented= the trick. You bark unexpectedly, and it startles people into complacency. I completely ignored his tone and instead held up my hand.
"Fingers like this?" I asked cheerfully.
This threw him off his stride, and he paused for half a beat. "LIKE THAT! FINGERS ON THE SCANNER! PRESS DOWN!"
I dutifully pressed on the little glass plate in front of his computer.
"FINGERS TOGETHER, LEFT HAND! PRESS DOWN!"
I resisted the urge to hum a little tune and pressed down.
"THUMBS OF BOTH HANDS ON THE SCANNER! STAND BACK WITH YOUR ARMS FULLY EXTENDED! PRESS DOWN!"
And I pressed down.
"Did it go through okay?" I asked as he clicked around.
"YES!" he barked, then more quietly, "yes. Now tell me." And he asked me some basic questions about myself, I assume to verify my identity. When he confirmed where I worked, he asked in a much more affable tone what I taught. I knew this trick, too--he was looking for suspicious demeanor. I told him I taught English to freshmen and seniors--I get them coming and going.
"You've got your hands full, then," he said with a little laugh.
"Final exams are this week," I replied. "The smell of panic is in the air."
By now, the drill sergeant barkiness had completely left him. He took my picture, then cheerfully told me that I was all set, and he gave me my traveler's ID number. It would be valid within 24 hours, in fact, if I wanted to use it quickly, and it was connected to my passport. And that was that. The whole interview took about two minutes.
Getting out of the place wasn't nearly as tricky. I asked the guard at the exit booth how to get back, and he told me in a Stern, Serious voice that I should follow the line of trucks crawling toward a particular road. They must have classes in being Stern and Serious. S&S101 or something. I followed the trucks, sternly and seriously.
And then the drive home. I survived the Stern and Serious Border Patrol and am now a confirmed, pre-checked traveler!
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January 17, 2018
Max and the Driving Test
Once Max finished the final segment of driver's ed, it was time for The Test. In Michigan, this means a parking test, a road test, and a few verbal questions. I made an appointment for such a test, and told Max when it was.
"It's too soon!" he squawked. "I'm not ready!"
"Too late," I said. "The fee is non-refundable. But we can practice a few moves."
Because I've been through this with Sasha and Aran, I knew what the parking lot test would be--backing into a space and pulling out of it; right-angle parking; and parallel parking. The parallel parking is the killer, and we live in a place where no one parks parallel, so Max didn't have much practice with it. I set up obstacles in the driveway to represent cars and had him pull in and out of the "space" until he had it down pretty well.
Today, we drove up to the test site, a public parking lot, and arrived several minutes early. Max was both nervous and excited and trying to hide both facts. The parking lot test was all set up with cones and things, but there was no sign of the proctor. We figured someone else was taking a road test, so I had Max do the parallel parking a couple times. He did poorly the first couple of times, but the third time, he got it. We were just pulling out of the space when the proctor arrived in the car of another teenaged applicant. She waved us out of the area.
"You're not supposed to be in the test zone," she admonished.
She had no idea we'd been practicing, and I certainly wasn't going to tell her!
We waited a considerable time while she talked with the other applicant in his car. At last she came over to us and introduced herself as K--. There was paperwork and a bathroom break, and then the test began.
For the parking lot test, I wasn't allowed to be in car with Max, and it goes without saying I wasn't allowed to coach him. I actually didn't want to watch, partly because I hate watching this kind of thing and partly because I didn't want Max to get nervous over me watching. So I went for a walk, though I had to stay in view of the car for legal reasons. I only caught glimpses of the test. Later I learned Max had done very well with the regular parking and backing up. During the parallel parking, he turned wrong and asked the proctor if he could start over. She apparently wasn't allowed to respond, so he pulled out of the space and started over. This time, he did it without a hitch.
Then came the road test. K-- went over the rules of the test (since Max was a minor, I had to be in the car; I couldn't coach him; seat belts buckled; etc. etc.), and the three of us were off.
K-- was a chatty person, and I deliberately kept up conversation going. This was strategy from me--if Max felt we weren't paying attention to him, he might be a little less nervous. And if he made a mistake that was borderline, K-- might be more likely to rule in his favor if we were happy, chatty people with her.
We drove around Clarkston. I caught a number of test strategies she used, mostly with lane changes. Max favored staying in the left lane, and K-- kept testing him on lane changes by forcing him over to the right, which is the more difficult lane change. I wanted to tell Max to get his butt over into the right lane and stay there so she'd have to use an easier lane change (from right to left) for the testing, but I couldn't, and he didn't twig to it. But he didn't make any major mistakes.
At one point, he was waiting at a red light to turn left, but he hadn't turned on his signal. He hadn't noticed, but I had, and so had K--. The light stayed red. I was trying to think of a way to point out the problem to Max without seeming to do so. Maybe I could say something like, "Where the heck are we, anyway? We're turning LEFT so that'll take us where now?" and hope he would get the hint.
I was just about to try just that when Max noticed the problem and turned his signal on a few seconds before the light went green. Cool!
At last, we arrived back at the parking lot, and here K-- turned more difficult. She concealed her clipboard with the totals on it, announced that the score was already decided, and quizzed Max extensively on how he thought he did and what he could have done better. Then she asked me how I thought he did and what =I= thought he could have done better. Then she talked some more. I was just about to snatch the clipboard and beat her over the head with it while I examined the totals when she said that he had passed.
Yay! And sheesh.
This was actually a first. Aran and Sasha took the test three and two times, respectively. Max was very happy, and so was I!
But . . .
K-- pointed out that there was a mistake on his Segment II certificate. It had the wrong day for his birthday. She said we could get a corrected certificate by driving out to the driving school headquarters (45 minutes away), or we could get one in the mail (after how long?). "But if I were you," she added, perhaps in recompense for hiding his scores, "I would just go to the Secretary of State's office and bluff your way through. They might not notice, or if they do, they might not care, since you'll have his correct birth date on all his other paperwork."
This is what we did. There was an SoS office only fifteen minutes away from the test site, and we could just get there before closing, so why not go for it? (In Michigan, the SoS handles car stuff, not the DMV. We're weird that way.) We headed over and, to our happy surprise, found the wait was projected only at 25 minutes. At the SoS office, this is a major score--an hour is more normal, and two isn't unusual. They use an electronic check-in that sends text messages to your phone telling you how close you are to the front of the line, which I absolutely love. You can wait in line at a coffee shop or while you're grabbing some groceries.
Max and I adjourned to a cafe two stores down for some celebratory smoothies, and when I got a ten-minute warning text, we headed back. In due time, we appeared before the clerk, an older, blond woman with big, red lipstick.
It was a little nervous for us as she went through everything. I opted to get Max the enhanced license, which allows re-entry from Canada without a passport, but which involves a little more paperwork. I handed over Max's birth certificate. It's from Michigan but is labeled "delayed live birth," meaning he was born in Ukraine but was issued a certificate here in America. This aspect of the certificate made it unacceptable for the license, enhanced or not, because apparently a three-year-old is at risk of being a terrorist laying down a long-term plan to get an American driver's license 13 years later.
"I'll need more," she said. "Like his social security--"
I handed the card to her before she even finished. The lipstick lady checked her list.
"Actually, this won't do it, either," she said regretfully . "I need his naturalization papers or his adoption--"
I handed it over before she finished again. Going through the original adoption process has made me hyper-organized about government shit, and I had brought with me every form I owned.
The lipstick lady shuffled papers, clicked on her computer, shuffled more papers, and then picked up the Segment II certificate, the one with the wrong birth date on it. Max and I both held our breaths. She looked more closely at it, and we were both sure she was going to object. Then she picked up a staple remover, plucked a staple from the corner, and dropped the form into her scanner without a word. The moment she was done, I whisked it into my handy manila folder.
Whew.
She took Max's picture, handed him a temp license, and told him his permanent license would arrive in two weeks.
All done!
This evening, Max took the car out for a little drive by himself for the first time. He said it was weird, and strangely lonely. :)
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"It's too soon!" he squawked. "I'm not ready!"
"Too late," I said. "The fee is non-refundable. But we can practice a few moves."
Because I've been through this with Sasha and Aran, I knew what the parking lot test would be--backing into a space and pulling out of it; right-angle parking; and parallel parking. The parallel parking is the killer, and we live in a place where no one parks parallel, so Max didn't have much practice with it. I set up obstacles in the driveway to represent cars and had him pull in and out of the "space" until he had it down pretty well.
Today, we drove up to the test site, a public parking lot, and arrived several minutes early. Max was both nervous and excited and trying to hide both facts. The parking lot test was all set up with cones and things, but there was no sign of the proctor. We figured someone else was taking a road test, so I had Max do the parallel parking a couple times. He did poorly the first couple of times, but the third time, he got it. We were just pulling out of the space when the proctor arrived in the car of another teenaged applicant. She waved us out of the area.
"You're not supposed to be in the test zone," she admonished.
She had no idea we'd been practicing, and I certainly wasn't going to tell her!
We waited a considerable time while she talked with the other applicant in his car. At last she came over to us and introduced herself as K--. There was paperwork and a bathroom break, and then the test began.
For the parking lot test, I wasn't allowed to be in car with Max, and it goes without saying I wasn't allowed to coach him. I actually didn't want to watch, partly because I hate watching this kind of thing and partly because I didn't want Max to get nervous over me watching. So I went for a walk, though I had to stay in view of the car for legal reasons. I only caught glimpses of the test. Later I learned Max had done very well with the regular parking and backing up. During the parallel parking, he turned wrong and asked the proctor if he could start over. She apparently wasn't allowed to respond, so he pulled out of the space and started over. This time, he did it without a hitch.
Then came the road test. K-- went over the rules of the test (since Max was a minor, I had to be in the car; I couldn't coach him; seat belts buckled; etc. etc.), and the three of us were off.
K-- was a chatty person, and I deliberately kept up conversation going. This was strategy from me--if Max felt we weren't paying attention to him, he might be a little less nervous. And if he made a mistake that was borderline, K-- might be more likely to rule in his favor if we were happy, chatty people with her.
We drove around Clarkston. I caught a number of test strategies she used, mostly with lane changes. Max favored staying in the left lane, and K-- kept testing him on lane changes by forcing him over to the right, which is the more difficult lane change. I wanted to tell Max to get his butt over into the right lane and stay there so she'd have to use an easier lane change (from right to left) for the testing, but I couldn't, and he didn't twig to it. But he didn't make any major mistakes.
At one point, he was waiting at a red light to turn left, but he hadn't turned on his signal. He hadn't noticed, but I had, and so had K--. The light stayed red. I was trying to think of a way to point out the problem to Max without seeming to do so. Maybe I could say something like, "Where the heck are we, anyway? We're turning LEFT so that'll take us where now?" and hope he would get the hint.
I was just about to try just that when Max noticed the problem and turned his signal on a few seconds before the light went green. Cool!
At last, we arrived back at the parking lot, and here K-- turned more difficult. She concealed her clipboard with the totals on it, announced that the score was already decided, and quizzed Max extensively on how he thought he did and what he could have done better. Then she asked me how I thought he did and what =I= thought he could have done better. Then she talked some more. I was just about to snatch the clipboard and beat her over the head with it while I examined the totals when she said that he had passed.
Yay! And sheesh.
This was actually a first. Aran and Sasha took the test three and two times, respectively. Max was very happy, and so was I!
But . . .
K-- pointed out that there was a mistake on his Segment II certificate. It had the wrong day for his birthday. She said we could get a corrected certificate by driving out to the driving school headquarters (45 minutes away), or we could get one in the mail (after how long?). "But if I were you," she added, perhaps in recompense for hiding his scores, "I would just go to the Secretary of State's office and bluff your way through. They might not notice, or if they do, they might not care, since you'll have his correct birth date on all his other paperwork."
This is what we did. There was an SoS office only fifteen minutes away from the test site, and we could just get there before closing, so why not go for it? (In Michigan, the SoS handles car stuff, not the DMV. We're weird that way.) We headed over and, to our happy surprise, found the wait was projected only at 25 minutes. At the SoS office, this is a major score--an hour is more normal, and two isn't unusual. They use an electronic check-in that sends text messages to your phone telling you how close you are to the front of the line, which I absolutely love. You can wait in line at a coffee shop or while you're grabbing some groceries.
Max and I adjourned to a cafe two stores down for some celebratory smoothies, and when I got a ten-minute warning text, we headed back. In due time, we appeared before the clerk, an older, blond woman with big, red lipstick.
It was a little nervous for us as she went through everything. I opted to get Max the enhanced license, which allows re-entry from Canada without a passport, but which involves a little more paperwork. I handed over Max's birth certificate. It's from Michigan but is labeled "delayed live birth," meaning he was born in Ukraine but was issued a certificate here in America. This aspect of the certificate made it unacceptable for the license, enhanced or not, because apparently a three-year-old is at risk of being a terrorist laying down a long-term plan to get an American driver's license 13 years later.
"I'll need more," she said. "Like his social security--"
I handed the card to her before she even finished. The lipstick lady checked her list.
"Actually, this won't do it, either," she said regretfully . "I need his naturalization papers or his adoption--"
I handed it over before she finished again. Going through the original adoption process has made me hyper-organized about government shit, and I had brought with me every form I owned.
The lipstick lady shuffled papers, clicked on her computer, shuffled more papers, and then picked up the Segment II certificate, the one with the wrong birth date on it. Max and I both held our breaths. She looked more closely at it, and we were both sure she was going to object. Then she picked up a staple remover, plucked a staple from the corner, and dropped the form into her scanner without a word. The moment she was done, I whisked it into my handy manila folder.
Whew.
She took Max's picture, handed him a temp license, and told him his permanent license would arrive in two weeks.
All done!
This evening, Max took the car out for a little drive by himself for the first time. He said it was weird, and strangely lonely. :)
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January 15, 2018
Shingles and WTF?
I came down with a small rash on my side a week and a half ago. It was red and painful and itchy. After a week, it wasn't going away or getting better, so I made a doctor's appointment for Monday (today). Over the weekend, I wore soft, loose clothes to avoid irritating it, and I used hydrocortisone ointment. By Sunday, it had shown improvement, and Monday morning it was much, much better, but I went to the doctor anyway, mostly to find out what it might be.
The doctor asked after my symptoms, looked closely at the rash, and announced it was shingles.
This startled me greatly.
"I can't have shingles," I said. "I've never had chickenpox."
This is true. I never had chickenpox. My brother and sister never had it. My mother never had it, either. As a result, when the varicella vaccine came out in the 90s, I was first in line at my then-doctor's office to get one. She was a little surprised to hear I'd never had chickenpox and suggested we run a blood test to see if I had antibodies for it. Maybe some kind of immunity runs in my family, she said, or maybe you had a mild version of it and didn't know it.
The test came back negative--no varicella antibodies. I'd never been exposed to chickenpox. So she gave me the vaccine.
I explained all this to my current doctor. He was also a little surprised.
"It's possible you had it when you were young, but didn't know it," he said. "Sometimes chickenpox can feel like just a cold."
"That would have given me antibodies," I pointed out, "and I didn't have them."
"You might have gotten it from the vaccine itself, then," he said. "The vaccine is a live virus, after all."
He went on to explain that if I had come in a little earlier, they could have taken a culture from the rash to see if the virus was present, but at this point, the rash had progressed too far into the healing stage. But if it comes back, I should come in right away for testing. In the meantime, the rash is healing, and meds are past helping. Nothing to do but wait.
I'm still feeling kidney pain that I associate with stones, and I asked if the pain I was feeling from the rash could be neuralgia, a condition in which pain nerves located distant from a problem can be stimulated to create false pain. The rash is several inches away from the area where I'm feeling kidney pain. Could I be getting false pain from the rash?
"Not along that 'circuit,' " the doctor said. "You'd feel that kind of pain somewhere else."
So we're back with the urologist to find out why my kidney continues to hurt.
When I got home, I did some research and discovered the CDC says the vaccine can indeed cause shingles, but only very, very rarely. So either I'm a very, very rare case, or this somehow isn't shingles.
And WTF, shingles?
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The doctor asked after my symptoms, looked closely at the rash, and announced it was shingles.
This startled me greatly.
"I can't have shingles," I said. "I've never had chickenpox."
This is true. I never had chickenpox. My brother and sister never had it. My mother never had it, either. As a result, when the varicella vaccine came out in the 90s, I was first in line at my then-doctor's office to get one. She was a little surprised to hear I'd never had chickenpox and suggested we run a blood test to see if I had antibodies for it. Maybe some kind of immunity runs in my family, she said, or maybe you had a mild version of it and didn't know it.
The test came back negative--no varicella antibodies. I'd never been exposed to chickenpox. So she gave me the vaccine.
I explained all this to my current doctor. He was also a little surprised.
"It's possible you had it when you were young, but didn't know it," he said. "Sometimes chickenpox can feel like just a cold."
"That would have given me antibodies," I pointed out, "and I didn't have them."
"You might have gotten it from the vaccine itself, then," he said. "The vaccine is a live virus, after all."
He went on to explain that if I had come in a little earlier, they could have taken a culture from the rash to see if the virus was present, but at this point, the rash had progressed too far into the healing stage. But if it comes back, I should come in right away for testing. In the meantime, the rash is healing, and meds are past helping. Nothing to do but wait.
I'm still feeling kidney pain that I associate with stones, and I asked if the pain I was feeling from the rash could be neuralgia, a condition in which pain nerves located distant from a problem can be stimulated to create false pain. The rash is several inches away from the area where I'm feeling kidney pain. Could I be getting false pain from the rash?
"Not along that 'circuit,' " the doctor said. "You'd feel that kind of pain somewhere else."
So we're back with the urologist to find out why my kidney continues to hurt.
When I got home, I did some research and discovered the CDC says the vaccine can indeed cause shingles, but only very, very rarely. So either I'm a very, very rare case, or this somehow isn't shingles.
And WTF, shingles?
comments
January 14, 2018
Travel and Me
I'm clearly on someone's list.
Whenever I travel out of the country, I always--ALWAYS--get yanked aside for extra screening when I return. What happens is that a red light goes off when the security people scan my boarding pass for re-entry, and I'm escorted over to a special security screening area along with my luggage. Once there, the personnel unpack and examine everything in my bags, then search me with hands, wands, and eyes. Because a Caucasian high school teacher in his 50s with teenaged children is at high risk for being a terrorist.
It's probably because I traveled with a group of exchange students to Germany several years ago. I've heard from more than one source that men who travel with exchanges are considered high risk. I don't know what the hell that kind of reasoning is, but it's the only explanation I can think of--this all started when I went on the exchange.
So when I learned about the Trusted Traveler Program, I investigated. People enrolled in the TTP get their passports marked with special status that allows them to do two things: 1) bypass normal security checks; and 2) get expedited return to the US from abroad. This means you can skip the long security lines at the airport for any flight, domestic or international (and you don't have to remove shoes and belts or remove electronic equipment from its case), and that when you return to the US, you zip through security and customs.
In order to qualify, you have fill out an on-line application, submit to a security background check, and attend a face-to-face interview. There's also a $100 application fee, and they don't refund it if your application fails for any reason. The membership is good for five years.
I decided to try it. I filled out the application and paid the fee. A couple days later got a (rather snarky) email that said I had passed the initial screening, but I had less than 24 hours to schedule an interview. If I didn't comply, I forfeited the fee and would have to start the application process over. This seems horribly draconian to me. I know lots of people who check their email sporadically, and anyone who didn't check every single day could have lost $100. But I checked their on-line schedule, selected a site (near the Ambassador Bridge in Detroit) and a time slot (Thursday at 3:00).
I'm curious about what kind of questions they'll ask. A friend of mine who's gone through it said the interview lasts maybe thirty seconds, so they must not ask much. I just hope this works. It'll take a lot of misery out of travel.
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Whenever I travel out of the country, I always--ALWAYS--get yanked aside for extra screening when I return. What happens is that a red light goes off when the security people scan my boarding pass for re-entry, and I'm escorted over to a special security screening area along with my luggage. Once there, the personnel unpack and examine everything in my bags, then search me with hands, wands, and eyes. Because a Caucasian high school teacher in his 50s with teenaged children is at high risk for being a terrorist.
It's probably because I traveled with a group of exchange students to Germany several years ago. I've heard from more than one source that men who travel with exchanges are considered high risk. I don't know what the hell that kind of reasoning is, but it's the only explanation I can think of--this all started when I went on the exchange.
So when I learned about the Trusted Traveler Program, I investigated. People enrolled in the TTP get their passports marked with special status that allows them to do two things: 1) bypass normal security checks; and 2) get expedited return to the US from abroad. This means you can skip the long security lines at the airport for any flight, domestic or international (and you don't have to remove shoes and belts or remove electronic equipment from its case), and that when you return to the US, you zip through security and customs.
In order to qualify, you have fill out an on-line application, submit to a security background check, and attend a face-to-face interview. There's also a $100 application fee, and they don't refund it if your application fails for any reason. The membership is good for five years.
I decided to try it. I filled out the application and paid the fee. A couple days later got a (rather snarky) email that said I had passed the initial screening, but I had less than 24 hours to schedule an interview. If I didn't comply, I forfeited the fee and would have to start the application process over. This seems horribly draconian to me. I know lots of people who check their email sporadically, and anyone who didn't check every single day could have lost $100. But I checked their on-line schedule, selected a site (near the Ambassador Bridge in Detroit) and a time slot (Thursday at 3:00).
I'm curious about what kind of questions they'll ask. A friend of mine who's gone through it said the interview lasts maybe thirty seconds, so they must not ask much. I just hope this works. It'll take a lot of misery out of travel.
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Max and the Test
Max's driving test is scheduled for Wednesday!
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Pre-Exam Week
This previous week was the last week before final exams. Monday there's no school, Tuesday is a regular day (and it'll be review all day), and exams run Wednesday through Friday.
I'm getting my usual Hail, Mary begging. "What can I do to bring my grade up?" (Study hard for the final and get an A.) "Can I turn in these missing assignments from October?" (No.) "Can I turn in extra credit?" (No.) "I'm going to fail English 12 unless my grade comes up!" (Yes. A pity you weren't this worried a month ago, when you could have done something about it.)
Unfortunately, I have a number of seniors this year who won't pass the first semester of English 12, which means they won't graduate. (Michigan law states you have to pass eight semesters of English. Miss even one, and you don't graduate, no exceptions, no excuses.) It means a flurry of emails, phone calls, begging, and me repeating, "Sorry. I've been warning you and your parents for months this could happen, and it's too late now." It's sad, and I wish it could be otherwise.
And now we charge into final exams!
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I'm getting my usual Hail, Mary begging. "What can I do to bring my grade up?" (Study hard for the final and get an A.) "Can I turn in these missing assignments from October?" (No.) "Can I turn in extra credit?" (No.) "I'm going to fail English 12 unless my grade comes up!" (Yes. A pity you weren't this worried a month ago, when you could have done something about it.)
Unfortunately, I have a number of seniors this year who won't pass the first semester of English 12, which means they won't graduate. (Michigan law states you have to pass eight semesters of English. Miss even one, and you don't graduate, no exceptions, no excuses.) It means a flurry of emails, phone calls, begging, and me repeating, "Sorry. I've been warning you and your parents for months this could happen, and it's too late now." It's sad, and I wish it could be otherwise.
And now we charge into final exams!
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The Rowing Machine
All my exercise (biking, running) involve my legs and nothing else. This isn't good for me, in the grand scheme. I need to work my upper half. Darwin has an elliptical, but I hate using it. It makes my joints feel weird. I finally settled wanting on a rowing machine, which works a lot of different muscles all at once.
I hinted to Darwin that I wanted one for my birthday, then remembered that subtlety is often lost on him and instead pointed at a web site on my computer. "This is what I want for my birthday," I said.
And lo, a few days before my birthday, a giant package landed on our front porch. Darwin had told me not to open any packages that came because it would be a birthday spoiler, but this one said ROWING MACHINE on three sides, so it was kind of hard to miss. :)
Thoughtful Darwin had also arranged for a guy to come to our house to assemble thing thing. Also yay! Both Darwin and I are bad at this kind of thing, and I really, really hate doing it, to boot.
Friday (just before Assembly Day), Darwin got an email that gave him the assembler's name and photograph along with the estimated time of arrival. Saturday morning, he arrived and I shooed him into the basement exercise room. It only took him about half an hour to assemble the whole machine. Judging from the number of parts, it would have taken me a couple frustrating hours, so I was only too glad to have him.
Later that afternoon, I looked up a number of videos that explained how to use a rowing machine properly. It's been years--decades--since I used one, and that was in the days before the Internet, so I never really learned it. I set my phone where I could see it and followed the videos until I had the hang of it, and went to work.
It was more interesting than running, that's for sure. The 20-minute workout went quickly, and I could feel it across my body. We'll keep going!
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I hinted to Darwin that I wanted one for my birthday, then remembered that subtlety is often lost on him and instead pointed at a web site on my computer. "This is what I want for my birthday," I said.
And lo, a few days before my birthday, a giant package landed on our front porch. Darwin had told me not to open any packages that came because it would be a birthday spoiler, but this one said ROWING MACHINE on three sides, so it was kind of hard to miss. :)
Thoughtful Darwin had also arranged for a guy to come to our house to assemble thing thing. Also yay! Both Darwin and I are bad at this kind of thing, and I really, really hate doing it, to boot.
Friday (just before Assembly Day), Darwin got an email that gave him the assembler's name and photograph along with the estimated time of arrival. Saturday morning, he arrived and I shooed him into the basement exercise room. It only took him about half an hour to assemble the whole machine. Judging from the number of parts, it would have taken me a couple frustrating hours, so I was only too glad to have him.
Later that afternoon, I looked up a number of videos that explained how to use a rowing machine properly. It's been years--decades--since I used one, and that was in the days before the Internet, so I never really learned it. I set my phone where I could see it and followed the videos until I had the hang of it, and went to work.
It was more interesting than running, that's for sure. The 20-minute workout went quickly, and I could feel it across my body. We'll keep going!
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Birthday, 2018
For my birthday this week, we had a very nice family celebration. I got cards from several members of my family, and my mother enclosed a postcard with an Apache blessing on it that was supposed to go with the dual-necked vase she got us for our wedding ceremony.
I joked with Darwin that since I was household cook, no one got me a cake, but since we've changed our eating habits, that was probably for the better. Besides, my friend Michelle got me a little tray of birthday brownies at work. Yay!
At supper, Darwin, Max, and I went to Casey's in downtown Wherever. This is the place I call the Irish Sushi Pub, since they have upscale pub food and a sushi bar both, meaning Darwin can have American food and Max and I can get sushi.
When we got home, Darwin unveiled with some fanfare a chocolate cake! Ta da! We laughed over that. It turns out when he went to the store to get it, the cashier looked at the inscription ("Happy Birthday Steven") and said, "That's so nice! Is this for your son?"
"No," Darwin said. "It's for my husband."
"Oh!" was all the cashier could manage. We have a ways to go yet . . .
And I also got a rowing machine. Keep reading.
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I joked with Darwin that since I was household cook, no one got me a cake, but since we've changed our eating habits, that was probably for the better. Besides, my friend Michelle got me a little tray of birthday brownies at work. Yay!
At supper, Darwin, Max, and I went to Casey's in downtown Wherever. This is the place I call the Irish Sushi Pub, since they have upscale pub food and a sushi bar both, meaning Darwin can have American food and Max and I can get sushi.
When we got home, Darwin unveiled with some fanfare a chocolate cake! Ta da! We laughed over that. It turns out when he went to the store to get it, the cashier looked at the inscription ("Happy Birthday Steven") and said, "That's so nice! Is this for your son?"
"No," Darwin said. "It's for my husband."
"Oh!" was all the cashier could manage. We have a ways to go yet . . .
And I also got a rowing machine. Keep reading.
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