You Need a License

The other day, the desktop computer died. So Cal and I took it to a repair shop. Thankfully, it was a quick, fairly cheap fix. But while we were there, the manager got a phone call from an unhappy customer. By the end of the conversation, I was glad I didn’t have his job. Here’s how it went:

Tech store manager: Uh huh. I see. So you can’t get online. Have you checked the Ethernet cable?

Pause. (During which non-tech savvy person talks and the tech store manager takes our computer apart.)

TM: It’s the cable that looks like a phone cord, but a little bigger. Make sure it’s plugged into the computer.

Pause. (Tech guy works on our computer while murmuring helpful “Uh huhs” to the non-tech person.)

TM: So what’s on the computer screen?

Pause. (Tech guy removes our power converter and points out capacitor problem.)

TM: Um, yeah, so that’s the Microsoft home page. You’re actually online.

Pause. (TM continues to murmur “uh huhs” as he installs a new power converter.)

TM: When your computer was repaired the software lost your homepage. Can you tell me what your homepage was? (Brief pause.) You can’t. Okay. Well, it’s probably still under your favorites. Can you find your “Favorites?”

Short Pause. (TM begins plugging in the wires of our new power converter.)

TM: The favorites button should be a star on the bar near the top of your screen.

Pause. (TM, having now fixed our computer, attaches the case while murmuring “Keep looking along the bar at the top.”)

TM: Really, it’s there. Keep looking.

Pause. (TM runs our credit card.)

TM, his voice so even that you know frustration is seeping out of his pores: Okay. Well, why don’t you bring the computer back in and I’ll find your homepage for you.

Pause. (TM hands us our receipt.)

TM: Okay, I’ll see you then. (Hangs up the phone.)

Me: Uh, do you get a lot of calls like that?

TM: All day long.

Me: Wow. I’m really sorry.

TM: (His eyes wild.) I think before someone can buy a laptop or a desktop, they ought to be required to get a license—a computer operator’s license. 

Me: Oh, yes. (I nod, agreeing and wondering if I would pass such a test. Probably not.)

Lucky Seven

The other day, the lovely Laurel Garver of Laurel’s Leaves tagged me with the Lucky Seven meme. To fulfill the meme, I have to post a section of my current WIP. For this blog, I chose to post from my literary/upmarket women’s/historical  fiction Dark Mercy, which I call The Platypus.  The tag requires the author to post from p.77, seven lines down. But when I looked that section up, I discovered that it's a birthing scene.  And since I have several blog readers who are quite young and the scene is somewhat graphic, I decided to post a section a few pages earlier leading up to the birth scene.  So this is from p.70, seven lines down:

She staggered to the drapes and peeked into the streets, but they were empty. Was that good or bad? She made her way to the stairs, grasping the back of the couch as a contraction wrapped its iron fingers around her spine. Her legs quivered. She moaned and grasped the silk upholstery so hard that her nails cut into the fabric. Her fingers curled with pain and tore the fabric into ribbons.

One by one, the painful talons slackened, but she knew that they’d return and with more virulence. A few hours ago, she’d woken with pain in her back. She’d tried laying on her side and then her back. But like hunger, the pains got worse. Then the vomiting began. She called the doctor, but he wasn’t there. He had left during in the night and hadn’t come back. His wife warned, “Even if he gets home, I don’t think he will come—who knows where the fighting is or if it’s safe to travel.” When she couldn’t endure the pain any longer, she called Lianda. She knew Lianda would come.

The final requirement of the Lucky Seven is to tag another seven writers. (I can’t wait to read their excerpts. I can’t remember who’s already been tagged—so if you’re getting tagged twice, sorry.)

1.    1.  Melissa Pearl

2.    2.  Anne Riley

3.    3.  AB Keuser

4.    4.  Misha Gericke

5.    5.  Lydia Kang

6.    6.  Krispy/Alz

7.    7.  Theresa Milstein

Also, as a treat I’ve also decided to post from the sequel to Screwing Up Time on my Screwing Up Time blog. So click over if you’d like to read that.

The Eccentrics

Last week, Cal and I went to the Chemistry Awards Banquet. Luke was receiving some awards and invited us to come. (Actually, we heard from someone else that he was getting awards and insisted on coming. But he was glad to have us come.) If you’ve never been to a get-together with a bunch of chemists, let’s just say it was an experience. We met interesting people.

First, we met girl who’s Luke’s physical chemistry lab partner. She was pretty normally dressed except for the Spock ears that were decorated with a big silk flower that matched her dress. She was very sweet. There was the guy in the white sport coat with a very fancy camera taking pictures of everything and everyone. I asked Luke if he was the official photographer. Luke said, “No. He just likes taking pictures.”

At the dinner, we sat at a table with a couple of professors and their wives. As we got to know each other, they asked about our other kids. And they found out that Ariel is a junior majoring in math, that Jacob will be starting college in the fall majoring in engineering. Luke added that he’s grooming Matthew to be a chem major. Luke’s prof told Luke that he gets a finder’s fee if he convinces Matthew to major in chemistry. Then, of course, the profs wanted to know what Cal and I studied in college. We told them—English Lit and Sociology. They blinked. A long pause ensued. Then, a throat was cleared and one of the wives said, “Um, I guess it must be in the genes somewhere.” Yep, must be. At that point, everyone ate their cake.

After the meal, the awards were given out, and Luke received several awards, which was very fun for us. Then, they announced a scholarship and called Luke’s name. His head jerked up. He didn’t know he was getting a scholarship. That was even more fun. And it was weird/fun hearing Luke’s professor talk about him. Weird because it’s a complete stranger who knows our son so well. And he discussed Luke’s research habits. I remember the words “the most persistent” being used. We see that personality trait at home too, but we called it “stubborn as a mule.” But, apparently it’s a good thing in the lab.

On the way home, Cal said, “I had a great time, but I’m not sure that I’ve ever met a group of more eccentric people.” I agreed. But now we understand why Luke used to meticulously organize his sock drawer when he was two years old. He was born a chemist. We just didn’t know it yet.

Stress Cleaning

It’s exam time at our home. My college juniors are taking finals. I remember finals. (And I remember the professors, who on the last day of class, assigned papers due the day of our class final—I’m sure Dante would have reserved a place for them in his Inferno.) At any rate, the stress level in our house has risen. Ariel copes by studying until her eyes melt. Luke copes by watching the Yankees. I’m not sure how it helps. Does dialoguing on Raul Ibanez’s on base percentage distract you from the upcoming American Chemical Society’s exam for Physical Chemistry? (During the discussion, Matt reminds us that 82.01% of statistics are made up.)

I realize a lot of people take study breaks and watch television. This makes no sense to me. When I was in college, neither I nor any of my roommates watched TV. Of course, we didn’t have one in our apartment, so that makes a difference. We were a bunch of stress cleaners—so we’d burn off our nervous anxiety with work. It went something like this. I had an exam in Elizabethan literature and I had to memorize 50 sonnets—yes, 50. So I’d take a break and scrub the shower with a toothbrush. Death to mold and mildew. My roommate needed a break from Boolean Algebra—she mopped the bathroom and kitchen floors on her hands and knees. Another roommate had a nasty Econ exam, she vacuumed the floors, dusted every surface, and scrubbed the counters. Roommate #4 bleached everything. By the end of finals, our apartment was so clean you could eat off the floor. Probably even the toilet lid (though that’s too gross to contemplate), though all the bleach and ammonia might make your eyes water or poison you.

Why can’t my kids be stress cleaners? All I’m asking for is one, maybe two, stress cleaners. I’d really like that. What about you readers? What crazy things do you do to cope with stress?

Face Blindness, Or, How I Could Help Sherlock Holmes

In the last month or so, there have been more TV specials on face blindness. (If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you know that I’m face blind.) Sadly, I missed these specials. But I did stream part of one yesterday.

In the 60 Minutes episode, a blond-haired female reporter (I have no idea if I’ve ever seen her before) was interviewing a man with face blindness. He told her that he once apologized to a man before he realized the man was himself in a mirror. My kids gasped when I told them the story. And then, they marveled and made comments that at least I’m not that bad. (There are varying degrees of face blindness, and I’m not bad.) That was before the kids realized that I told them that story for a reason. Don’t get me wrong, I have never apologized to myself in a mirror. But I have been in a public place with lots of people and mirrored walls, and I’ve seen a face that seems familiar and a second or two later realize, “Oh, that’s me.”

But before you think, “Oh, that’s pathetic,” (yeah, I admit it is a little pathetic) remember that I’ve developed skills that you probably haven’t. I can pick people out based on the sound of their voice, the cut of their hair, and the way they move. So I was taken aback when we watched the Sherlock Holmes, part II movie. In the movie, Dr. Watson and a woman must find the woman’s brother before he sets off a bomb. But the problem is that the woman’s brother has changed his face with plastic surgery! So—oh my gosh—they can’t tell which man he is. I thought this was stupid. Easy-peasey. Even if we assume that he dyed his hair and cut it in some new style, all the sister had to do was look for his ears, his hairline, and the way he stands and moves. After all, this was her brother, not a stranger or someone she’d met only a couple of times. If he were my brother/parent/child, I could’ve picked him out in a minute or less.

The moral of the story is if your ever need to find a bomber who’s had plastic surgery, pray that he has a face blind relative.

What I Learned From JK Rowling

I’m sure everyone has heard the news that JK Rowling is coming out with a new book. This time, she’s writing in a different genre—this book is geared toward adults. And I have to say that I’m impressed by her bravery.

Publishing this novel must be a terrifying thing. She’s writing in a new genre, with a new voice, and for a different audience. She knows that whatever she writes will inevitably be compared to the Harry Potter books, which is like comparing apples and oranges. The HP phenomena was the result her skills as writer combining with the perfect books and a ripening audience that was hungry for something new and different. Don’t get me wrong, I know it took a lot of hard work by her, her publishers, marketing people, etc. But market timing was critical. No one can fairly compare the success of this book with the HP books. But they will. And that’s why I think she’s brave. It’s like if Pat Benetar decided to sing opera. I picked Pat Benetar as an example because she’s one of the few pop/rock singers who was reputed to have the voice range and strength to sing opera. But making the transition from top forty singer to opera…wow. That’s what I think Rowling is doing.

Obviously, Rowling can’t be doing this for the money. She doesn’t need it. And she must know that there are some reviewer/critics waiting to diss her book. In spite of all that, she’s got a new book coming out. I suspect that she’s doing this because like the rest of writers, she loves to tell people a story. And that encourages me to be brave too.

It's Never Good When the Mail Comes Early

Yesterday, the mail came early. It was not a good thing. There was a letter from my health insurance company in the stack of mail. I swallowed, took a breath, whispered a prayer that it wasn’t bad news, and opened the letter.

Of course, it was bad news. About three paragraphs into the letter, my insurance company announced they weren’t going to cover my recent surgery. My blood ran cold. Blue Cross claimed that there hadn’t been proper prior authorization. Now I broke out in a hot sweat. What had I missed? I’d made phone calls—I talked to the insurance company, the doctor’s office, I even talked to the hospital intake staff and each one verified that I was good to go. And now the insurance company said I wasn’t. (If I’d been five, I would’ve shouted, “Liar, liar, pants on fire!”)

I called the insurance company. A woman answered. I explained that I’d gotten a letter saying that Blue Cross refused to cover my surgery. Actually, it never said that. It only said that it refused to cover a recent procedure—I only guessed it was my surgery because of a date in the corner.

The “helpful” agent at Blue Cross reminded me that I signed paperwork before surgery making myself financially obligated should there be any payment problem. She asked me if I remembered that. “Um, yeah,” I said. This wasn’t going the way I’d hoped. So I explained my situation—that I’d double-checked everything. She put me on hold so she could read a copy of the letter that had been sent to me. I waited a long time.

When she came back, she said, “That was a very confusing letter. (Uh, yeah.) But one of your procedures wasn’t preauthorized, so we won’t cover it.”

I was stymied. I did sign paperwork right before I was wheeled into surgery. Maybe I shouldn’t have signed it? Maybe the “happy juice” they put in my IV made me lose my vigilance.

But the doctor didn’t know what I’d need until he started the surgery. I explained this to the BC agent. She murmured that it was too bad—to be fair, I think she was sincere. Sort of. She informed me that I could appeal Blue Cross’s decision. Blue Cross’s letter also told me that I could appeal. It also mentioned my right to consult a lawyer for help in crafting the appeal. (Gulp.)

Then, the agent mentioned that the doctor’s office could appeal because it was actually their fault because the missing paperwork could only be filed by the doctor’s office anyway. I had a moment of sunshine—I didn’t screw this up. It wasn’t my fault. We might have medical debt for the rest of our lives, but at least it wasn’t my fault. Still, I wasn’t sure when the doctor’s office was supposed to do this. I asked her, politely, if Blue Cross required doctors to call during the middle of surgeries to get prior approval if things turned out differently than expected. (I can see an interesting comedy skit developing from this.). She merely restated that either doctor’s office or I could appeal. Then, she said, “Have a nice day.”

So I called the doctor’s office, which, of course, was closed on Wednesdays. I left a message. I called again Thursday. They didn’t pick up. I left another message. Just when I thought that they might be avoiding me, the doctor’s office called. The woman in charge of billing talked to me. You know, sometimes it’s nice to talk to someone who knows what’s really going on and actually cares about you. She assured me that I had no financial obligations in this case. That the hospital blew it by not filing the paperwork and that she had been on them since the Friday afternoon when my surgery happened. (I’m guessing that the billing people were too eager to start their weekend.) She assured me that she’d deal with the insurance company—she explained how they work, which is not too different than what you see in The Incredibles. Finally, she assured me that she would take care of everything. I could almost hear her cracking her knuckles. And she even promised to call me when she had everything “taken care of.”

Thank you, insurance-billing-lady!!