Ponderings and Musings

In today’s faltering worldwide economy I can’t help but pay attention to what is going on financially all around me. Not only do I like to spend money these days but I also like to see how money is spent and what can be done to make the experience a little less harrowing for all involved.

We are all familiar with the good ol’ American way of purchasing a car from your friendly car dealer. You browse the car lot and look at the various offerings while a snappy dressed salesman tries not to notice you from a nearby window and then decides to take a walk. Said walk spirals in closer and closer faster than the starting line of the Boston Marathon and suddenly you have a car salesman as your best friend who is offering to recline the bucket seats in a non-suggestive manner. Once you make up your mind on which auto you’d like to purchase, you then find out that none of the numbers on the price sticker are applicable, but instead you must dicker your way down with the salesman to a good price, after he leaves his office several times to make motions and whisper sweet nothings into some manager’s ear.

I’m discovering the same thing applies to the medical arena these days. During my last physical (and I underscore the word last for various reasons) with Dr. Lance, I resisted his suggestion that I take Norvasc for my slightly high blood pressure, as Norvasc has a history of (and gave me) this cough I couldn’t shake. Dr. Lance’s ears perked up at the word “cough” and faster than you can say “Fire all phasers, Mr. Chekov” I was in for a chest x-ray. This experience cost somewhere between four and 634 American dollars.

The bill arrived a few days ago. The hospital charged $181 for two views (one smiling, one frowning). Some HMO contractual person took off $68.78 even though I don’t have an HMO. Naturally my chest is taxable so I had a NYS Assessment Surcharge of $10 added on.  My bill then came to $122.26 but that’s only if I decide not to pay it, for if I pay the bill I only have to pay $97.81. That last amount was only determined after I called Theresa at the hospital billing office (not to be judgmental but she really sounded like an Irving or Stanley). Theresa banged on the keys and made an ancient sounding teletype machine spit out paper (I could hear the ripping sound) and she came up with the magic number as long as I pay it within 16 days. I needed to put her name on the bill so we all know it was legit.

Now, factor in the fact that I have a deductible on my health insurance now and nary a scratch on any of my fenders, I don’t know why I’m only paying Theresa’s amount when I think I should be paying some other amount. And since when do we have deductible rates on health insurance? Can’t I just skip the glass coverage?

With all these numbers being flung about in just about every aspect of our lives these days it’s a small wonder that the economy is such a mess.

So I just got back from my dermatologist appointment. My regular physician was concerned about the spots on my skin so he wanted me to see the skin doctor. After an eight week wait I was in and met with her for the first time. She checked my skin in less than three minutes.

I have freckles. That’s what redheads do. We have freckles.

I have also had this little irritation/rash thing on my forehead and the bridge of my nose for awhile. My regular doctor had prescribed some steroid cream that irritated the hell out of my eyes. The dermatologist looked it over and determined that the steroid cream is not a good idea and told me what the problem really is: I have have dandruff.

I am a bald man with dandruff. And not only that, I have dandruff on my forehead and the bridge of my nose. Putting oils, lotions, etc. on my skin is aggravating the condition so she gave me some magic formula that is gentle on the skin to treat the condition. I have a follow up appointment in six weeks.

She also looked over every inch of freckles on my body (and I have a lot of them, even in places you wouldn’t expect them) and there is no concern whatsoever with any of my spots. I’m clear of skin cancer from top to bottom.

I’m just a bald Irishman with dandruff on my forehead.

“This just in, former First Lady Barbara Bush has been rushed to the hospital for stomach pain. So far, all tests are negative.”

Does this mean she doesn’t really have the pain or she doesn’t have a stomach?

When I started this blog back in 2001 it was in an effort to improve my writing skills. I like to write for the most part and though I don’t think I’m really that good at it I still get enjoyment from expressing myself by typing my thoughts. I’ve never been one to care about the number of people reading my blog. I love hearing the comments from others and meeting people through our cyber connections but I don’t feel the need to come up with gimmicks to get people to visit here often. If you stop by, you’re welcomed with open arms. If you’re not here, that’s fine as well, I’m not taking a billboard out to advertise myself nor will I make this whole affair “new and improved”.

I like to think that my writings here are a fairly honest, though rather edited snapshot of what is going on in my life. What you read here is true to my personality. I am pretty open about how I live my life as a gay man and I’m brutally honest about my belief structure. If I have an opinion, you’ll probably hear it.

There are some subjects that I choose not to talk about in these parts though. There are two reasons for this. First of all, back when I first started using the internet back in 1984 (and yes, I said 1984 as in the ‘Here Comes The Rain Again’ era), I was taught that you should never write something down unless you wouldn’t mind it appearing on the front page of the New York Times. I apply that principle to all electronic communication: blogs, e-mails, website comments, everything. To delete is futile, once it is typed it is forever, it will be saved somewhere, someday and might come back to haunt you when you run for Governor of Alaska or something.

The other reason that I don’t write about certain subjects on here is simple; I don’t want to have to answer uncomfortable questions at a family reunion or office party. I have no regrets and little to hide, but I really don’t want to face this type of dialog:

Them: “So, on the weekends, you…?”, as their voice trails off whilst putting potato salad on the paper plate. It’s a long lost in-law who stumbled upon my blog a month or so ago.
Me: “Usually on the weekends, but once in a while during the week”, I reply, being brutally honest and making the curious uncomfortable. I start to blush.
Them: “Earl does too?”
Me: “Not so much.”
Them: “In public?” Another scoop of potato salad, the interrogator lost in the moment.
Me: “Once in a great while. I like making a scene”, I beam.
Them: “Where do you get …”
I nervously glance around the food tent and quickly interrupt, “Online, but sometimes Lowe’s or Home Depot. Lowe’s has camouflage.”
Them: “Are there pictures?”
Me: “Undoubtedly someone in the crowd has taken pictures. Check Flickr.”

I remarked to Earl yesterday that my little bout of writer’s block seems to have become unclogged and I was ready to start writing about life again.

He replied that he didn’t know I was stopped up.

I am desperately trying to be excited about the impending holiday season but I’m not really having any success at the exercise. It’s not that I don’t like the holidays; I enjoy getting together with relatives and doing that sort of thing. I guess I’m just not feeling any joyous feelings or something, probably because it has become way too commercialised.

One of the local radio stations switched to non-stop Christmas music the moment they turned the porch light off to discourage any further trick or treating activity. Since then they have been “ChristMix”. Personally I find the first of November to be entirely too early for a non-stop litany of Christmas music. I’ve never enjoyed non-stop Christmas music on a station, let alone starting so early in the season. It irks me to the point that I won’t even scan the radio dial anymore, I just play it safe and avoid the radio all together. Perhaps I could consider that a Christmas gift – traditional radio proving that it has truly turned into a steaming pile of crap and we should listen to the music of our choice via iPod or some reasonable derivative. And while I’m on the subject of holiday music, and I know I have mentioned this before, but when did “My Favorite Things” from the Sound of Music as sung by Babs become a Christmas song? Is it because she sings “bright coloured packages tied up in string?” It is not a holiday song, so please just knock it off.

I think another reason that I’ve become rather soured on the holidays is because of the crap of “Happy Holidays” versus “Merry Christmas” versus whatever that started a few years ago. When I saw a mimeographed 8×11 sheet of paper that simply said “MERRY CHRISTMAS” in bolded helvetica taped to the windows at Sears a few years ago, in an effort of the retailer to try to save themselves from sort of weird boycott, I figured society had completely lost it’s mind and everyone had lost sight of what the season is suppose to be about.

Then I decided that I had no idea of what the holiday is suppose to be about. After all, Christmas is where it is on the calendar because the Christians decided to compete with the Pagan celebration of Winter Solstice. Going to church creeps me out for a number of reasons and quite frankly why should I celebrate the prime holiday of a religion that is trying harder and harder to impose it’s values on me and make me believe that I am a mistake or damned to eternal hell because I am honest about who I am? (Admittedly, it’s the more extreme members of society that are the cranky ones.) No thank you.

So here’s the deal. I’m not listening to holiday music. I’m not drinking egg nog. I will be relatively festive and I’ll buy presents for those that I truly want to buy presents for and on December 21 Earl and I will have a beautiful Winter Solstice Feast to celebrate the shortest day of the year and the rebirth of Mother Earth.

The big guy is out of town on business tonight. The house feels lonely.

I am off to help a friend with his computer. Full on geek mode with a beer or two on the side. To fully prepare I’m not like other geeks, I don’t watch episodes of Xena, I crank up “Remember” by BT. Every available mix, loaded to an iPhone. Brian Transeau, he has initials too, a classically trained musician that took his art and gift to the electronic world. I know a boy that could have done that but Fredonia State crushed his dreams and threw them away.

“Can you do me a favor?” There is a sucker born every minute. I agreed to three hours of on-call to help a friend out on Saturday. It’s o.k., I like my co-workers and know that they have my back. I have their back too, and many other backs.

I love my world. I love my existence. Sometimes it’s hectic and other times it’s not. Typing incoherently seems to relieving some stress that I’m feeling. Electronic communication is a beautiful thing. Just don’t abuse it. I am able to keep in touch with the ones I love, even though they are miles away.

I was told late last night that I looked tired. Personally I thought I was holding up pretty well but since I’ve been told this by a couple of people over the past week I guess there must be some truth to the observation. I must be tired.

Why is it that I’m awake at 3:21 a.m.?

This week of on-call has been relatively tame. I haven’t had a lot of middle of the night crises; the work has been steady but not crazy. Sleeping with the pager on never really allows me to let my guard down enough to sleep through the night soundly, though. I end up sleeping in this quasi-alert sleep that creates completely incoherent dreams. I just woke up from dreaming that it was the 1940s and I was coordinating the renovation of a very old office building. The doors were too big for the rooms they were in and would swing too far into the room. From there it gets weird, I was looking for wall tile that sung when touched. Musical walls for the bathroom. Bizarre.

I think part of the reason for my insomnia is frustration. I’m not one for the eat-sleep-work-repeat way of life, I need to get out and experience whatever I can. This week has been more about the regimented order of things. I suppose I’ll be ready for some adventure come Monday morning when on-call is over for a month. It’s a shame that I’ll be too tired to do anything about it.

I had been in my cubicle for approximately 23 seconds when I was informed that the telecommunications service for an entire section of the city was down and more importantly, I needed to print out my time sheet immediately so that it could be sent to payroll by noon.

It was 9 a.m.

Still charged from the weekend and not really feeling the moment, I let out a low, rumbly growl that came from somewhere deep inside this bear. Everyone that was talking to me scattered and went back to their desks.

I am not a morning person. I am not a Monday person. When I was in a managerial role at a previous job, everyone that reported to me knew the golden rule: give me five minutes to get my bearings before bombarding me with the business of the day. I can handle the stress, I can handle fires, I can handle the crisis; just let me make sure my caboose is on the track so I can head in the right direction.

Now they know.

Work is an interesting environment today. Early in the morning it seemed like the theme was “Talk very loudly in your cubicle and make sure your cell phone rings ridiculous ringtones.” That all simmered down when…

… the Human Resources Manager was seen in black. This is never a good sign. We are now down one person. Unfortunately, that person was never one to talk loudly in his cubicle. He never really talked at all. Not even on the phone, which is odd, working in a call center and all.

Today kicks off my first full week of on-call since returning to my job almost six months ago. I’m not feeling overly pressured by the thought but some of my co-workers are giving me the “psych out” about how I’m going to get no sleep and be very busy all week. Talk of blizzards, rain, violent winds and such are being shared with me to keep me on my toes. I take it all in stride. They don’t realise how good I am at psyching people out in my personal life. And besides, if it’s a busy week, I can roll around in the overtime loot. Naked.

One thing that I’ve never understood is the use of pictures of people sprinkled through software applications. I’ve mentioned before that one application we use has images of Asian woman sprinkled here and there. We now have this image on a sign-in page:

I don’t believe the woman looks very happy. Dignified, yes. Excited about being in a software application? No. And quite frankly I’ve never understood why the guy is sitting out in the middle of a really shiny floor in his office chair. Where did his desk go? Is he playing office chair NASCAR? Does this make the woman angry that he’s not at his desk and sliding across the shiny floor in his office chair?

Many questions on a Monday.

This is my favorite time of the year. I enjoy the cool, crisp autumn breezes, the crunching sound of the leaves when they’re walked on and the lack of oppressive humidity and heat that summer usually brings to these parts. What I don’t enjoy is trying to get up in the morning when it’s still dark. This task fights against the natural programming of my body.

This coming weekend would normally marked the end of Daylight Saving Time but because of Bush Lite and his wacky cast of characters, we have to wait a few more weeks before getting the clocks relatively aligned with what is really occurring outside. I don’t know why this frustrates me but nevertheless it does. I mean, last year we had to endure the same extension of Daylight Saving Time as we do this year. Maybe I should go back and read the blog from a year ago to see if I complained about it then. I probably did.

Meanwhile, I’ll stumble around in the dark getting ready for work. I think I need to buy one of those light therapy boxes to give myself a boost.