Loathing and Rage: The HMO edition.

I am not a stupid person. A little scattered, maybe, but not dumb. And when I got my new medical benefits, I specifically asked about mental health coverage, to make sure I didn't need to see a "network provider." And I read the materials I was given, because I know that fucking up in this area can cost beaucoup money. And it seemed to me, from my investigations, that if I saw someone "in plan" the coverage was brilliant, and if I saw someone "out of plan" it was less brilliant, but still there.

WRONG-FUCKING-O.

A phone call today (just trying to track down the proper way to send the billing in for reimbursement) reveals that not only do I have to see someone "in-network," it must first be authorized through Blue Shield's contractor, United Behavioral Health. And that neither of the counselors I have been seeing for over two months now are "in-plan." And that I have no coverage for out-of-network care.

More than a thousand dollars. Normally, I call stuff like this (library fines, late fees, parking tickets, money paid as a consequence of not reading the fine print) "stupid tax." And it's a reality of life when you're as scatterbrained as I am. But this is fucking ridiculous. I tried. I asked questions. I was fucking careful. I WAS NOT STUPID. And now I'm a thousand dollars down with no recourse.

The worst part, of course, is that it's almost impossible to find someone "in-plan" with these networks who is (a) any good and (b) accepting patients; also, months of building background and rapport with the current counselors are now fucking wasted, as I will have to start over again with new people. I almost just want to quit; say, "fuck this, I don't need therapy this badly" except that I do, as is clearly evidenced by the fact that just this minor setback has me almost in tears.

How do people who aren't smart, who don't know to ask questions and read the material, ever supposed to navigate this shit, if even I can't figure it out? This is beyond ridiculous.

GodDAMNit.

I adore my family.

In better news, a conversation between myself and my parents last night:

My grandmother notes that the cat, a silver Persian, will only eat white turkey meat.

Me: It's like flamingos, you know, how the shrimp make them pink? She has to avoid dark meat to stay so white.
Dad: That's been debunked, actually. It's not the shrimp that makes them pink after all, it's something else, I can't remember what.
Me: I refuse to believe it. The other theory is far more fun.
Mom: Yes, I too prefer to believe that the shrimp make the flamingos pink.
Dad: But shrimp aren't pink until you cook them. It's like lobsters, how they're green first, and then they turn bright red when they're cooked. Shrimp are bluish green.
Mom: Yes, but they must have the pink inside them, and the cooking brings it out somehow.
Dad: (dryly) Inner. Pinkness.
Mom: (with conviction) Yes, it's all nice and warm inside the bird, and it brings out their inner pinkness.
Aunt K: What are you talking about?
Mom: (loftily) It was my science hour. If you weren't listening and missed it, that's your problem.
Me: *helpless giggles*

Tuesday Loometh Large

How to find your polling place. Or, if you've just moved, are on vacation and forgot to arrange for an absentee, or have other difficulties, you can vote provisional ballots at almost any polling place.

I've signed up through AmericaVotes.org to call voters in Oregon, a major battleground state, to get Democratic voters to the polls on Tuesday. If you live closer to a battleground border, they're also looking for volunteers to drive out to those states and help get out the liberal vote. Go sign up; even if your own state's electoral vote is more or less a sure thing, you can make a difference where it counts.

The New Yorker has endorsed Kerry. For the first time in 84 years, one of the most thoughtful and well-researched magazines in the country has declared a preference - a strong preference - for one candidate. I am proud to be a subscriber, goddamnit. Best. Editorial. Ever. A succinct and damning analysis of the failures and prevarications of the Bush Jr. administration.

I firmly believe that John Kerry will be a good president, and that he will help lead our fair country out of this embarrassing pit of debt, lies, and international condemnation into which the Shrub has dug us. Even if you don't care about the presidential election, do it for those of us who are wholly invested in it.

Make me happy: vote for Kerry.

So, professionalism.

After I posted that little snarl the other day, I started thinking a lot more about it. Because, you know, I started noticing that a lot of the most professional people I know don't actually put their contact info in their .sigs. And I started feeling guilty because I'm not, by most people's estimation, the most professional person, myself. I show up late to meetings, sometimes. My emails sometimes have typos in them. I don't always read emails from others as closely as I need to. And sometimes I even have to be reminded of procedural-type things in order to get them done.

And so, let me clarify. It is perfectly possible to be a very professional person and not do the little stuff, though the little stuff certainly has a high pain/gain index in terms of conveying your essential attitude toward the work to others. It is perfectly possible to do the little stuff and not be professional, to own the perfect suit and have the perfect .sig and always return calls on time and still not get the job done. Of course, there's always some of each in every worker; you can't get anything done without some of the small stuff, and vice versa. But I know which side I like the balance to tip on.

Because essentially, professionalism is about getting the job done. As well as you can. By the deadline. All the other stuff is just window-dressing. If doing the work, and doing it well, is important to you, it will show. You'll put in the extra effort. Do the double-check, stay the extra day on the weekend to meet the crunchy deadline, be polite and helpful to the person you don't like or the client you can't stand. Forgo the occasional fun thing with friends because you know that your co-workers need you. Stay up all night.

Not all jobs require all these things, and certainly not on a regular basis; I'm hoping mine requires less of this sort of thing and SOON, or I might crack. But when it's really important, true professionals can make the extra push, and it's that attitude that really defines it for me. That primal scream the other day wasn't to say, if you don't put your contact information in your .sig, you are unprofessional. It was a cry of rage at people who (a) don't get the job done and (b) don't do the little stuff either. Because while I stand in utter awe of people who manage both (if there's a secret trick to it, please do let me know!), managing neither is really sort of pathetic.

Do I sound like a workaholic? Because I'm not, really. I'm just the daughter of one, and I've internalized the work ethic. I'm far too lazy to actually be one. Trust me.

So very shallow, yes.

I have more things to say about professionalism, but they can wait. Because I need to be incredibly shallow for a moment, and talk about fashion, a subject on which I am uniquely unqualified to speak, as I own fewer clothes than almost any other woman I know. But bear with me.

At any given moment, fashion crimes are being perpetrated on a wide scale. I'm not talking about individual ignorance or poor taste, I'm talking about widespread trends that should never have come to pass. I'm sure you can think of a few off the top of your head; I'm not going to provide examples. But like earthquakes, volcanoes, and certain weather patterns, these trends, usually isolated, come to a head every few decades in a simultaneous explosion of painfully poor aesthetic choices on all fronts of the apparel industry. Now is one of those times. We are having, like, a twenty-year fashion crisis, here.

Waistlines have officially dropped below asscrackage. Selvedges and fraying are in. Pleats - dear God, pleats - are back. The other day I was in a chic little boutique downtown and I saw a chartreuse and brown vertically striped asymmetrical knit poncho. Can we count the things that are wrong with that? Chartreuse? Striped? Asymmetrical? Poncho?!? Right. And what is with these "skirts" and "dresses" that look like someone just tacked together the rag bag without reference to human anatomy? The disastrousness is unlimited and pervasive. I saw two little girls wearing legwarmers and jelly bracelets the other day - granted, it was in Southern California, but all they needed was one net glove and a fake mole for it to be 1982. Alternatively, if you preferred the previous decade, huge bug-eye sunglasses are back in vogue. They made your momma look like an overgrown mosquito in 1974, and now they can overpower your face too! Oh, and high heels? Do not go with jeans. Not if they're over 2 inches, and especially not if they're pointy. Just saying.

It's a style apocalypse. We will be able to look back at photographs taken this year and date them based solely on the clothing people are wearing. The children of today's fashionistas are going to fall over laughing at this year's pages in the photo album. And I can't find a nice, simple dress worth wearing to save my life. Somebody had better fix this before I wear out all my nice, comfortable classics and am forced to wear low-slung Pucci-print hotpants. Because it won't be pretty, I assure you.

IRE and IRK

Dear People Who Would Not Know Professionalism If It Bit You In The Ass,

Sending all of your work email without including your contact information in the .sig is a little like leaving a phone message and not reciting your telephone number clearly and carefully. Sure, I can look it up - but it's the little things that leave the impression. And right now? I'm unimpressed.

No love,
Me.

Beset on all sides

Now the twelve Thunder Generals surrounded Monkey and attacked him with their battle-axes, swords, lances, halberds, maces, and scimitars. Monkey whirled like a top, countering every blow. But after a while he grew tired.

“This is hardly a fair fight!” he said. “But here’s a trick you haven’t seen yet!”

He yanked a dozen hairs from his tail, threw them in the air, and cried, “Change!” Each hair became a monkey that swung an iron staff against one of the Thunder Generals.

“Now I can take a break!” said Monkey. He put his staff away in his ear and stood grinning in the midst of the battle.

-- The Journey To The West, by Wu Cheng'en, translated by Aaron Shepard.

I need clones. I counted. I need six little monkey-mes to do all my work, sleep all my sleep, spend time with all my friends and loved ones, and take care of all the mundanities. But I am not greedy; I would settle for one or two, just for work. I feel sure I could at least do a better job of everything else if there weren't so much work. I think I've actually had four proper weekends since I started this job over three months ago. And my freelance stuff...I can't even talk about it. Too too grim.

One earthly shell is just not enough. I demand either clones, magic hair-monkeys, or more days in the week! Do you hear me?! I can't do this by myself!