Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Katy is represented by
Rachelle Gardner at
WordServe Literary
Read more Katy at
LateBoomer.net
Recent Posts
- Soul Train
- Live Out Your Dream And Discard The Box
- Tears In A Bottle
- From The Young Mom I Once Was, To You
- I Can’t Help Falling
- What A Difference Ten Years Makes
- The Next Best Thing To Robert Redford
- The Memory Keeper’s Daughter
- Where Have All The Years Gone
- Fun With Kiki Cullen
- Stuck On Mom
- Ten Years Later, Our Girls From Northern Ireland Remembered
- The Thrift of Grief
- Job Security
- The Party’s Over
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
Our Fallible Wedding
Thirty-two years ago this morning—-yes, we had an eleven o’clock wedding—-Doug Raymond and I exchanged vows that would determine the course of the rest of our lives.
And, of course, the rest of my life with this man has been the stuff of dreams. The one thing that has amazed me day after day, year after year, is that he is a man of integrity. I believed I knew his character when I agreed to be his wife, but who can know for certain? As it turns out, Doug is still the man I married, a man whose constant kindness and compassion have made all the difference in my life.
Now, just for fun and (at our ages, it must be said) for posterity, I’m going to share 32 Things About Our Fallible Wedding Day, most of which our own children probably don’t know. And in a very real sense, I write this for them: Scott and his bride Brooke, Carrie and her husband Marc, and Kevin. Everything about our marriage pointed to the family we would raise together, to the joy God had in mind for us when He planned to give us these children. So kids, this one’s for you!
1. The night before our wedding, we rehearsed at Second Presbyterian Church in Kansas City, and then went to Doug’s parents’ house for a homemade spaghetti dinner. Most of the girls wore full-length dresses that night, and the men wore suits and ties. I wore an ivory muslin and rust velvet-trimmed Gunne Sax dress, designed by Jessica McClintock, who still designs fabulous clothes. I wore a necklace by 1928, a new company at that time and one I still purchase to this day. I looked like a million bucks and Doug looked hot. HOT. But we were Jesus Freaks. We didn’t talk like that! Ha.
2. I decided to spend my last night as a single girl with my parents, in my old bed in The Dormitory. We moved into that house when I was six, and Liz, Mary, and I had twin beds lined up in a bedroom with two dressers and one small closet to share. The beds took up most of the space, needless to say. But by the time I got married at age 23, I’d already lived away from home for five years and hadn’t spent a single night in that bed during those years. I’m surprised I got any sleep at all, but I did.
3. My mother made me bacon and eggs at the crack of dawn on February 19, 1977. If I’d only stuck with a nice low-carb diet like I had that morning for my entire adult life, I’d have never had the crazy weight problems I’ve battled, but THAT’S another story. While I ate Mom’s breakfast, Doug and his groomsmen were eating a gourmet meal of Egg McMuffins at McDonald’s. We were very easy to please in those days.
4. I acted as my own personal assistant. Washed, dried, and curled my hair. Painted my nails a pale caramel color, and did my own make-up. My father expressed his horror over the dark russet colored lipstick I had worn for my newspaper photo pics, and so for my wedding, I wore a lighter shade that nearly matched my nails. He seemed happy with that, which was good because…..
5. Dad was extremely unhappy we were getting married in a Presbyterian church. Only I did not know this. Doug and I were both raised Catholic, but started going to a non-denominational Jesus People Bible study as teenagers. The group happened to meet in a Presbyterian church, and the church happened to be gorgeous. Dad would have had to bribe the priest to get us married in the Catholic church, and while he wasn’t above bribery, it never occurred to us how hurt he would be over our decision. After he died (when I was 30), Mom told me he almost could not walk me down the aisle. He was from Scotland, you see, and the Catholics and Presbyterians didn’t exactly mix it up over there. If only I had known…..
6. My mom and her friends spent several days making the food for the reception. Unlike most of our friends who only served cake and punch, we had sandwiches! Roast beef and ham on buns. And mints from a fantastic new spot called Laura’s Fudge Shop, now called Laura Little’s Candy Kitchen. And M&Ms. We did not, however, have booze. My parents never forgave me for that, as it embarrassed them and also forced them to have an after-reception party at their house for the drinkers. (We only popped in long enough to see my drunken uncle ash his ciggie on the priceless Persian rug, and then it was off to the airport for us.)
7. When we arrived at the church, me in my purple Gremlin and my parents in their ginormous station wagon, I soon realized I had forgotten my shoes. I had paid $42 for them at Chasnoff’s, a swanky store in which you could find off-season items like leather ivory heels if you got lucky. Some sweet soul took my car and went back for my shoes, the only misplaced item of the day. I haven’t lost them since, by the way. They’re in a plastic bag in the hope chest.
8. My wedding dress cost $160, a small fortune. It was the first dress of many I tried on, but I needn’t have bothered with the others. I knew that dress was perfect the instant I saw it. It was a size four, but they had to cut away half of it for it to fit right. Sheesh.
9. Coincidentally, $160 is the same price Doug and I paid for all three rings: his wedding band, my wedding band, and the engagement band into which we had set the diamond from his grandmother’s engagement ring. These days, they say to plan on spending two months’ salary on an engagement ring. Who comes up with this stuff? Back then, I was making $800 per month and Doug made $600. If he’d suggested spending $1200 on a ring, I would have backed out of the deal. And by the deal, I mean the marriage.
10. I have receipts for all expenses pertaining to our wedding and honeymoon. The kids will find them someday and chuckle, the way I still do when I run across the hospital receipt for my own birth. (No health insurance back then, you know. For $140, Mom and Dad brought me home free and clear.)
11. The trend of taking photos before the wedding was just beginning in 1977. We took all the photos we could, stopping short of seeing each other prior to the ceremony. That was a tradition I could not bear breaking. The WOW factor of waiting is like the wonder of not knowing the sex of your babies until they arrive—-a treat we also enjoyed with each of our kids. When I took my father’s arm, I looked up and saw Doug waiting for me by the altar. Those beautiful green eyes of his let me know he liked what he saw. He wore an ivory tux with brown velvet bow tie and cummerbund and he looked HOT. Smokin’ hot, only we were Jesus Freaks and we….well, you know.
12. There were no camcorders then, and no one in attendance had a movie camera. Somewhere in this house, though, we have an honest-to-goodness reel-to-reel audio recording of the ceremony. We haven’t listened to it once in 32 years, because we couldn’t figure out a way to play it in our 8-track. Ha.
13. I walked down the aisle to “Fairest Lord Jesus,” played by a classical guitarist friend of ours. The traditional bridal march was out of the question, because for my whole life my father had sung, “Here comes the bride, fair, fat and wide….” to that tune. Kind of ruined it for me!
14. I wanted Doug to sing to me during the ceremony, but he said he wouldn’t be able to get through it. He’d written a beautiful song with words straight out of Hosea, “I will betroth thee unto me forever…..” A friend of ours sang it, and did a great job, but all these years later, when Doug sings it, I still weep.
15. I also expressed a strong desire, during our wedding planning, for bagpipes. I am sorry, but my family has pipes at every wedding and funeral, and sometimes in between. Evidently, the French do not share this tradition. Doug flatly turned me down, though in the past ten years he’s become a huge fan of Celtic music and now can PLAY the bagpipes. Ah, well. There’s still my funeral to look forward to!
16. I had five bridesmaids—-my sisters Liz and Mary, and my friends JoAnn, Dorothy, and Annie, plus my darling baby sister Bridget, who was ten and acted as my junior bridesmaid.I am close to all these women to this day! Doug is very good friends with all but one of his groomsmen, also. We have a randomly shot photo of that guy stashing a present from the gift table under his tuxedo jacket, and we don’t know what became of him after that…..
17. As much as we adored our pastor “charging” us to obey every Scripture in Ephesians, Corinthians, and several other books of the Bible, both of us were looking ahead to the part about “kissing the bride.” Someday, though, we WILL get that tape out and go over the instructions again, in case we overlooked something. Needless to say, we did not overlook kissing.
18. We received tons of groovy gifts, including several cards with $5 enclosed—-a typical amount one might expect from peers in those days. My parents gave us two dining chairs to go with the table and four chairs I’d purchased earlier. Doug’s mom and dad gave us a stand mixer. We also received, from a dignified older couple, a green ceramic hanging frog ash tray. And—-from a girl who had a crush on Doug and did not care for me one wee little bit—-a squirrel cookie jar.
19. We spent our first night together in Miami, at the airport hotel. We thought staying near the airport would be a great idea, since we’d be leaving there the next morning for Ocho Rios, Jamaica. How could we know that it would be hotter than blazes in Florida, that the air conditioner would be broken, that we would have to open the windows to survive, and that the planes would land and take off RIGHT OUTSIDE OUR WINDOW? Seriously, how could we know that??
20. By the time we were getting on the plane to head for Jamaica, Doug’s father was having a heart attack. His mother contacted my mother and they debated whether or not they should call us. Doug’s father was in the advanced stages of malignant melanoma and had barely been able to attend the wedding. In fact, he was too sick to stay for the reception. But a heart attack?
21. They decided not to call us. We went to Jamaica, blissfully unaware of what was happening on the home front. When we arrived back at the KC airport one week later, I called my mother to let her know we were on terra firma. “Go straight to the hospital,” she said. “Your father-in-law is not doing well….” Jack made it home from the hospital, but died two months later.
22. I’ve always asked myself what we would have done if his mom had called us before we got on that plane. Would we have skipped our honeymoon? It’s haunted me enough over the course of our marriage that the story actually makes its way into the novel I wrote. In the novel, they skip their honeymoon.
23. We climbed that crazy waterfall in Ocho Rios and we’ve even climbed it once since then. I’ve got some Tarzan and Jane pics to go with the first climb. My rust-colored one-piece suit cost over $30 (off-season, again!) and I still have it. I looked FINE in that suit. On the second climb, ten years ago, let’s just say I did not wear my size-tiny suit.
24. I had a couple of showers, but don’t remember any of my friends giving me lingerie. There was no Victoria’s Secret back then, although I suppose for the gutsy, there was Frederick’s of Hollywood. I wasn’t that brave! The store now known as Dillards used to be Stix, Baer, and Fuller, and they had a beautiful lingerie department. For our wedding night, I purchased a traditional white peignoir set—-a long gown with a matching robe. I still have it, and when I pull it out to take a look, I try to imagine it fitting successfully over a broomstick. It’s that skinny. Sigh.
25. At the all-inclusive resort where we stayed called “Tower Island” (it’s now a Sandals), we were served three fantastic meals each day, typically from a buffet. This is when I learned that Doug is extremely picky and won’t eat anything he doesn’t recognize. For some meals, they dished out only native foods, and Doug sulked while I ate him under the table. This still sometimes happens today.
26. One night in Jamaica, we decided to spring for a meal in a restaurant in the town. We made reservations at Moxie’s, the place with the best reputation. We knew it would cost us ($38!), but we thought it would be fun. We sat at a table on the multi-terraced grounds and enjoyed several moments of peace before THE HUGEST ROACH I’VE EVER SEEN scampered across our candlelit table!!! I totally freaked out and demanded a table inside the restaurant, where the manager actually came to our table and told us that all Americans are WIMPS.
27. We wrote our own vows. I still have them, on ripped out stenographer’s pad paper. I wrote mine in ink, but I believe Doug wrote his in pencil. Neither sheet has faded.
28. I have my intensive to-do lists from those days. Pages and pages of contact info for photographers and bakeries and florists and dress shops. Lists of ideas for gifts to present to our attendants. All the tourist info about Jamaica and notes comparing resorts as far as features and prices, and info from the airlines, as well. An index card for each invited guest, with their address and phone numbers, to which I later added a description of the gifts they gave and the dates I sent thank-you cards.
29. Doug has one note to himself: Get fitted for tux. I had to write myself a note to remind him to read his note.
30. When we’d been married around 25 years, I came upon two thank-you notes I’d written and never mailed. I tracked down the gift-givers and sent the notes!
31. When we visited my parents upon arriving home from Jamaica, my father asked us why we weren’t tanned. He wasn’t known for subtlety.
32. We’re still not tanned.
Doug, I can only say that there are a million memories of not just the beginning of our life together, but of every sweet minute with you. Thank you for making them stick.
Not-So-Fine Print
Who knows how many freakin’ pages long the current stimulus bill is, but here’s betting there’s not one elected official in a hundred who knows what’s in it.
If the elderly Ted Kennedy knows, I gotta think the so-called health care portions of the stimulus package might make him raise a bushy eyebrow. After all, he is doing everything possible to fight off one of the most aggressive types of brain tumors known to man, and I imagine his treatments are costing a pretty penny. Maybe he pays for his medical care privately, but even if that’s true, under the new stimulus bill, his private doctor would be considered a renegade and would come under the scrutiny of the feds.
But let’s suppose for a moment that Senator Kennedy has health coverage provided to him by the taxpayer, as part of his compensation. He’s no young whippersnapper, you know. And when the European-style health rationing INCLUDED IN THE CURRENT STIMULUS PACKAGE becomes law, the HealthCare Czar will begin to dictate which remedies, tests, surgeries, and medications are deemed appropriate for someone with such a measly number of years left on this earth.
Senator Tom Daschle, before his pesky tax-evasion problems goosed his backside out the Crummy Healthcare Clinic door, contributed his last efforts toward a collection of wrong-headed ideas found buried in this behemoth of a stimulus:
“Daschle says health-care reform ‘will not be pain free.’ Seniors should be more accepting of the conditions that come with age instead of treating them. That means the elderly will bear the brunt. Medicare now pays for treatments deemed safe and effective. The stimulus bill would change that and apply a cost- effectiveness standard set by the Federal Council (page 464).”
Now, don’t get me wrong. I really don’t mind rationing my own health care. In a very real sense, I do that already. Doug and I, as the only two employees of our corporation, have high-deductible health insurance, with high premiums, and a health savings account on the side. We each have an individual policy, and in a bad year when we both require medical care, we are each out-of-pocket $3000 before the insurance kicks in. And that’s with spending $800 per month in premiums for the privilege.
We think once, twice, and then a bunch more times before going to the doctor. But you know what? That’s OUR decision, based on our own unique set of circumstances and how we’ve chosen to allocate our limited resources. Our doctors, of course, are consulted in matters in which we know we need their professional opinions about how to proceed. But it’s never crossed our minds ONCE to seek the advice of the GOVERNMENT when attempting to determine whether or not we “deserve” to be treated.
Read this article, O fallible ones, and tell me what YOU think. Do you want your healthcare determined by a board of government officials, who intend to go so far as to impose penalties on doctors who fail to withhold care according to federally-regulated “cost-effective” standards?
I’m getting a strong sense that a bunch of old folks are about to get offed, courtesy of the Unread Stimulus Bill of 2009.
Hang on to your hat, Senator Kennedy.
Funny Ha-Ha, Or That Other Kind Of Funny?
You know how your credit card company might do you the favor of freezing your account temporarily and notifying you if some untoward charges suddenly accrue to your name?
I’ve never faced serious fraudulent transactions personally, but in a way being able to say in a tone full of righteous indignation, “I beg your pardon! I did NOT order the Hope diamond to be shipped to a slimy thief in Madagascar by FedEx! Reverse those charges immediately!” would make me feel good about my finances right about now.
And what if you actually SPENT what the credit card company believes no one but a common criminal could have spent, and that by virtue of your excellent FICO score? I can only imagine how I’d feel if I had to say, “Um….no, the charter of that Lear jet to take my friends to see the total eclipse of the sun in Nova Scotia didn’t just happen to whomever Carly Simon wrote ‘You’re So Vain’ about. It happened to me, too….” Doh!
Lucky for me, I don’t have either of these problems, which represent two sides of the same coin. Technically, I don’t even have very many same coins, but I digress.
What I do have is a letter from the Savings & Loan I referred to in a recent post, the one where I have an old but newly revered Passbook Savings Account. It should be noted here that I opened this account back when my mother was a teller at this institution, circa 1982. Mom’s boss was a great guy named Steve, and while Mom retired maybe fifteen years ago, Steve remains constant as the manager of the branch where I’ve been sending Checks Of Unusual Size for the past couple of months.
Steve KNOWS me. If I were to walk into the the Savings & Loan today, he’d greet me by name and ask after my mother. We go so far back, some of our adult children weren’t even born yet when I began to make deposits (and yes, withdrawals) at that very building. And while I don’t hit the bricks and mortar often, my brother does, and he keeps Steve up-to-date on the whole family.
So, this letter, signed in Steve’s own hand and addressed to me specifically, apprises me of the fact that suspicious activity may be occurring in my long-dormant Passbook Savings Account, and that I should contact him instantly if someone other than myself is making these REGULAR AND LARGE DEPOSITS.
This is about the best thing that’s happened to me this year, in the financial realm. You’ve GOT to wonder when suspicion begins to be attached to a DEPOSITOR (especially when I am signing checks for deposit that match the signature card they have on file, and filling out a detailed deposit slip, and enclosing my coveted Passbook Savings Account Book so that they can update my balance and I can smile with satisfaction….) and letters are sent by Savings & Loan officers who’ve known the account holder FOREVER.
Coming under scrutiny for saving money has made me think more than twice about the twisted state of affairs we—-as a nation—-now find ourselves in economically. But it’s also made me wonder how much better off we’d all be now if everyone’s passbooks had been showing strong entries on the deposit side since 1982.
Good old Steve could have saved a noble sheet of paper, leaving more for the Feds to print money on. And I’m pretty sure THAT’S what’s really meant by going green.
Test-Driving Your Medical Power-Of-Attorney
If you are over the age of eighteen, you should have put into place legal paperwork naming another individual (or better, two) to act as your power-of-attorney for health care decisions in case you become incapacitated.
Unfortunately, you cannot assume that if you are married, or have a parent or an adult child, said person will automatically function as a decision-maker if you can’t. In fact, the exact opposite may be true. These days, whenever my husband or I see a new doctor, we make sure to sign the form that allows the other one access to all our medical records. It’s amazing the information you are not allowed to find out about your own spouse, unless you’ve signed this paperwork. I always tell my health care providers that if I am not available to receive their calls, they may give my husband the report and/or leave a detailed message on my voicemail.
But beyond those types of aggravating but usually non-lethal situations, you will eventually—-if you live long enough, which is precisely the outcome I hope to produce by writing this post!—-be called upon to function as power-of-attorney for a spouse, family member, or friend, or you will require these services from someone you trust.
I’d like to encourage you today to give this decision some very serious thought. You might be married to the NICEST, KINDEST, MOST NURTURING AND CARING person in the universe, and because of that, he or she might just prove to be the worst choice to help you navigate the roiling waters of the healthcare system if you are not able to fend for yourself. Your sweet spouse might be constitutionally incapable of creating the kind of ruckus in the plodding, paint-by-numbers hospital setting that is sometimes (read:often) required if your sorry situation is to be salvaged.
Estate planners and others who guide you into putting these important documents in place will almost always say that usually it’s advisable for spouses to act as medical POAs for each other. My advice? Sure, sign your spouse up. But make sure you add a second person, whose name will usually follow a clause in the document that says your second choice will come into play if your first choice is “unavailable, unwilling, or incapable” of acting on your behalf.
When you really need someone to step up to the emergency plate for you, you’d better have SOMEONE in your line-up whose views about end-of-life measures and whose abilities to communicate, question, verify, substantiate, research, and follow-through are impeccable.
You want someone willing to suspend his or her own interests in order to advocate for you when you are unable to care for yourself. You want someone whose personality is unflinching in the face of those pesky authority figures called doctors, nurse managers, and hospital administrators. You want someone who can and will google the heck out of your symptoms, diseases, and injuries, and not take no for an answer when he’s told they’ve “done everything they can,” unless he knows for sure that it’s the truth.
I am NOT talking about keeping your loved ones alive forever, attached to plastic tubing and masks and needles, with a clothespin pinching their index fingers to make sure they’ve got sufficient O2 for the next second’s need. I have absolutely no interest in being tied to this earth beyond what seems reasonable to God Himself, and when I function as power-of-attorney for my mother, I keep that firmly in mind.
However, I also realize that often, with even a modicum of appropriate health care, a terribly ill patient can be restored to a reasonable quality of life. The job of the power-of-attorney in those circumstances is to make sure——against what can often be nearly insurmountable odds—-that effective health care is attempted and achieved.
Assuming you have named at least one person to be your own power-of-attorney, I suggest you give him a test drive during your next medical situation. Even if it’s not a bona fide emergency in which you lose your ability to act on your own behalf, you can still—-by paying attention—-get a good idea of how your POA might behave in more difficult times. Does he take notes? Ask salient questions? Ask about the types of tests the doctor might do? Bring up important points of your medical history the doctor might not be aware of or taking into consideration? These are all good clues about how he might function when the screws really start to turn.
Apply the same standards to yourself, as well, if you have agreed to function as power-of-attorney for another. It truly is an important—-and often life-saving—-responsibility and shouldn’t be agreed to lightly. Unless you really intend to be there for that person when things get as bad as they can get, you might want to pass on the “privilege” to someone who is up to this particular life challenge. It is NOT for everyone!
In any case, add at least one alternate name to your own powers-of-attorney, and if you serve as power-of-attorney for another, you might ask that person to add another POA, too. Consider grown children who share your values, or friends you’ve witnessed handling their loved ones’ care in a competent manner.
While there’s not always safety in numbers, in the case of having a couple of POAs, I don’t think it hurts a bit.
Nor Do I Play One On TV!
Over lo these many years, which sometimes feel like many more than they actually are, I’ve developed something of a medical professional persona.
I say persona, of course, because it’s not possible for me to actually be a medical professional, if by that term one means someone who has received at least a modicum of formal education in the field. My formal education, which forces me to tick the box “some college” when filling out online forms to receive free samples from WalMart, consists primarily of credits in subjects that make my heart beat faster: American and British Literature, Speech, Composition, Western Civilization, Novel Writing, and Creative Writing. To my mind, I’d have a thoroughly well-rounded education if I wound things up with Art History, Photography, Interior Design, Graphic Design, Vocal Performance, and Theater.
I would probably still complete a degree if I weren’t so darned afraid of math and science—-the two fields in which I find myself immersed in “real life” on a daily basis. HOW did I end up the bookkeeper for the business my husband and I own? I LOATHE tax forms almost as much as I resent our tax liability. I intensely dislike managing cash flow for a small business, since it requires a diligent setting-aside of money during the great months to compensate for the not-so-great and sometimes, well, I don’t feel like being diligent.
But here’s the thing: Even though math is not my favorite subject, I am competent to a fault. And therein lies my downfall.
The same is true with medical stuff——which in addition to math, involves plenty of the science I have always dreaded. Because of an unrelenting amount of personal experience——with my own body, the bodies of The Moms, and the bodies of various and sundry other friends and relatives——I now get asked CONTINUALLY by medical professionals whether I am an RN.
This question usually arises after a short conversation in which I am able to recall from memory my mother’s medical history dating back to 1964, including the dates of her gall bladder surgery, her parathyroid surgery, her liver biopsy, and the fall in which she shattered both her elbows.
I throw medical terminology around with the best of them, and in a way, I think it gives the real pros a bit of a thrill to know they’ve got a live one on the other end. But it’s not just words, either. I actually know how to suction a trach and administer a tube feeding. It’s amazing the stuff you learn when you must, in order to be the friend and caregiver God has called you to be.
But here’s the deal: Because I’ve saved a few lives here and there, folks are now coming out of the woodwork to say they “want me on their team” when their own bodies begin a sorry decline. Typically, these folks are married to very mellow spouses, who might not even recognize common signs of impending death like not breathing or having a pulse, but instead interpret these subtle signals on the part of the grievously ill to be simply indications that the poor, overwrought soul has finally “relaxed.”
Relaxed, my eye! Whenever anyone I know relaxes, I get them to the ER, fast! And so therefore, yes, my reputation is spreading as someone who just might be able to save your life in a pinch, too, and who wouldn’t want to stay in that person’s good graces? Mine’s a hard gig, but somebody’s gotta do it.
In the meantime, my dear husband is also getting requests from our aging acquaintances, since they’ve seen him, too, exude a quiet confidence in the face of life’s most stressful situations. He has a small notebook in which he notes their names when the solicitations come in, so determined is he to be of service whenever the need presents itself.
I worry about him, though. I know how exhausted I’ve become trying to care for the physical needs of those under my wing. I’d hate to see him meet the same fate. But what can I do? He seems resigned to his future as he adds each notation to his book, and assures all who request his services that he will remain stalwart in the face of challenges, and would not dream of failing them during the hour of their need.
So, here’s the arrangement: I’ll handle everything until they croak. Then he’ll play Irish whistle at their funerals.
Honestly, we’re both more than gratified to have made the cut.
The World-Wide Web, Minus—-Apparently—-The Kingdom Of Bahrain
Tell me the truth, dear fallible readers. Do you find me and my writings ban-worthy? Because, according to a long-time reader in the Kingdom of Bahrain, the Ministry of Culture and Information is (in the words of the old Pace Picante Sauce advert) “gonna have to shut me down.”
Honestly, I think I’m the most uncontroversial girl in the known universe. I only rarely speak of my strongly-held political views, and in case you’re wondering right this second what those might be, let me just say I heart Ron Paul. A lot. In fact, the more I read and hear the stuff he wrote and said a year ago, or two years ago, the more I realize how RIGHT he is about the condition in which this country finds itself (the United States of America, not the Kingdom of Bahrain. I barely knew what body of water Bahrain found itself in, until today, never mind which STATE).
In addition to only linking to t-shirts with goofy politicians’ quotes (and NO, I did not mean to write “politicians’ goofy quotes”) for a measly few weeks out of a very long election cycle, I also have refrained from publicly either rejoicing or regretting the election of President Barack Obama. What’s done is done, and I am far too classy a blogger to air the dirty laundry of my negative attitude here.
You deserve better, as does the Kingdom of Bahrain! And while it’s true that a wikipedia article about the nation refers to its law against the line-hanging of ladies’ underwear in public and the display of a shop mannequin clad in lingerie, I truly had NO IDEA that I might have offended the sensibilities of the Minister of Culture (and Information!) by mentioning my unmentionables with, I guess, one too many mentions. Sigh.
I also try not to fallibly dwell on the vast variety of religions out there, though I do sometimes refer to my own Christianity and the person of Jesus Christ, who’s saved me from sins far more grievous than those which have caused my writings to be blocked from the eyes of readers in at least one ENTIRE COUNTRY. The Kingdom of Bahrain, I believe, is largely Muslim, and I understand that one reason websites are banned is if the nation’s religion is disrespected. Have I somehow attacked the fair people of Bahrain by saying I am a Christian, and that they, quite probably, are not? (By the way, it should be noted that I never said this until just this moment….)
It seems difficult to imagine that Islam could be the blog-ban bullet, but right now, a good old-fashioned Catholic examination of conscience might be in order on my part, just in case.
Praise, politics, and panties aside, there remains my most recent faux-pas. That pesky word S-E-X, clearly positioned for all the world except Bahrainians to see in the title of a recent post. But didn’t the Minister of Culture notice the question mark at the end of the title? Isn’t the CLEAR implication that NO sex, either real or imagined, was actually engaged in by the two parties having the very extremely non-sexy conversation detailed in the post?
“Excuse me, Mr. Minister of Culture and Information, but I do not think that question mark means what you think it means….”
Take a peek at the message that popped up when my friend in Bahrain tried to do a little fallible reading this morning. At the bottom of that page, my friend linked to an article about the websites that have been banned. There are supposedly only 68 banned sites IN THE WORLD, but it looks like the list is growing.
As for me, I think I’ll just go ahead and proclaim this The Fallible Year Of Blogging Dangerously. Why not just say EVERYthing I want to say, and let the bans fall where they may?
Do you think the Minister of Culture has banned fallible from his own personal computer? If not, perhaps there’s still hope of me making at least one more friend in Bahrain.
And while it’s too late for any Bahrainians besides the Minister of Culture to read this message, I apologize for offending you. It was never my intent.
Not That This Has Anything To Do With The State Of Affairs In The World, But…..
I ran across this quote, and since it made me smile and groan at the same time——difficult to do while chugging coffee and attempting to swallow with a very sore throat—-I decided it was post-worthy:
“The problem with socialism is that you eventually run out of other people’s money.” - Margaret Thatcher
Make-Up Sex?
Doug and I have been a little grouchy with each other recently. When we both got the flu at the same time over New Year’s, I think it got a bit overwhelming. We’d say things to each other like, “Do you have the strength to pour the coffee?” And then the other would say, pitifully, “No. I was hoping you could raise your arm that high….” Pathetic, eh?
Plus, he fell somewhat behind on his work (ah, the curse of the self-employed: No holidays, no sick days, no personal days, no matching 401K, and prohibitively expensive health insurance that delights in attempting to deny your claims…). Now he’s been in major catch-up mode, putting in 15-hour days, 7 days per week.
When his mother goes in the hospital, I cover for him. When mine goes in the hospital, well…you get the idea. So, we’re cranky.
Today, we had this conversation, our attempt at making up.
Katy: I’m really going to try to be nicer, Doug.
Doug: Me, too.
Katy: Maybe if I try and you try, we’ll somehow make our way back to Square One.
Doug, who leans in to kiss Katy: Maybe even Square Two.
Katy: Um…I think you’re thinking Base Two.
Doug: Oh. Yeah.
Throw Mama From The Brain?
I got my mom admitted to the hospital yesterday. Believe me, this is not my idea of fun. In fact, if I could——that is, if I was constitutionally able—-I would pretend like I did not see a medical disaster unfolding before my eyes. I would ignore blood sugar readings that fluctuate from 70 to 420 and back again in a matter of hours.
But instead, I bite the bullet and call the doctor. It falls to me, because it’s the week-end, when there are no actual “real” nurses at the facility where Mom lives. The doctor immediately—-upon my descriptions of the symptoms and numbers the staff at the facility are ignoring with ease—-agrees that she must be in the hospital to regulate her insulin regimen.
And so, we go. Now, the very fact that we’re going makes Mom very angry. Not so much at the situation, but at me. And she lashes out in her frustration, and you know what? It’s OK. I am a big girl now. And in the same way parenthood is not a popularity contest, neither is being the adult (responsible) child of an ill parent.
I didn’t sign up for this, except for, well, those pesky Durable Medical Power of Attorney papers. :) But apparently, it signed up for me. And part of courage is doing the right thing, even when you know way in advance of taking the first step that you will be inconvenienced beyond your wildest dreams, berated for your best efforts in the best interests of someone else, and called terribly rude names.
Right now, I’m one of the most wildly unpopular daughters on the face of the earth. But my mother is getting the care she needs and deserves.
That is enough for today.
Never, Never, Never Give Up
Call me perverse and paranoid, but I have this theory, and here it is: Once you get a single letter denying your claim for health services rendered, you can expect to begin to get a steady flow of such denials——IF you do not make prompt and consistent contact with the insurance company to argue your case.
It’s like the insurance company is looking for the slightest crack in your armor and when they find that area of possible vulnerability, they will do their mightiest to wedge a sword in and twist it hard. Then, when you’re weakened and bleeding and your last breaths are coming in fits and spurts——meaning you have an absolutely undeniable claim on their benefits!—-they put you on hold so that they can dash off another letter apprising you of your few and diminishing hopes for satisfaction.
Here’s my advice, and trust me, it’s good: When you get that first letter turning down your claim, get yourself on the phone with the insurance company and explain yourself. If you don’t LOVE the attitude, intelligence, and general demeanor of the rep you’re speaking to, fake a disconnection and call again. I guarantee you that, while the next person to take your call can see the name of the person you just spoke with and the extent of the conversation you’ve had so far, you will NOT be reconnected to the original rep.
Now, if you think you are clicking with the rep who takes your call, get her name and EXTENSION NUMBER immediately. That way, when you call back and someone less competent/caring picks up the line, you can either ask for Sarah (who will never be available, of course, and besides, Sam has everything in front of him and can take it from here, ha-ha) or insist on being put into her voice mail.
Here’s the reason: It’s actually possible that you may develop a fantastic enough rapport with a certain rep that she will end up advocating for you in ways you cannot anticipate or expect. You do NOT want to lose that relationship, once it’s begun!! Having someone on the inside can mean more to you than all the appeals processes in the world, and the appeals process is exactly where I was headed, starting today.
I have had seven or eight claims of various sizes denied by my health insurance company since October. As you might remember, I was an inpatient for five days over Thanksgiving (mmmm…..clear chicken broth for a holiday feast!) and for some reason I still don’t understand, my insurance decided that only ONE day was medically necessary. My primary doctor had to schedule a peer-to-peer appeal with a doctor who works for the insurance company, and finally my entire hospital stay was deemed necessary.
That started the stream of denials that has filled my mailbox and mind ever since. As of last night, I had the outstanding denials whittled down to $2530, but people. Even when I’m sick——even when I’m bedridden!—-I refuse to take this stuff lying down.
I left a message in Sarah’s voicemail after hours yesterday, assuring her that I thought I had found the glitch that had caused my claims to be mistakenly denied. She called me back first thing this morning, and let me know that I had made a serious error in how I attempted to use the company’s website to find doctors who are in my network. I was shocked to hear this, as I had followed the website’s cues to a tee, and still came to a conclusion that caused me to seek treatment from an out of network doctor.
I explained to her, from the point of view of the spouse of a professional website developer, that the site was not the least bit intuitive and easily leads patients to wrong conclusions about their coverage. She listened patiently, but basically said there was nothing for me to do but to begin a long written appeals process, which would probably gain me nothing.
I did not behave antagonistically toward her, since she was perfectly nice, helpful, and knowledgeable. And before we hung up, she said, “Now you’ve got my extension number, right? Call me back anywhere along the line in this process.”
I got off the phone, and Doug and I discussed how we would have to take this up with our doctors, as they clearly led us to believe that they were in the network of our healthcare providers. Just when I was about to initiate the first call in this process, the phone rang. It was my new best friend, Sarah.
She had singlehandedly taken my case before her superior and gotten them to agree to pay the charges of the out-of-network doctor in full, based on the persuasive argument I was able to lay out before her. Because I insisted on being reconnected to her, rather than passed along through an endless chain of reps, she somehow formed a connection with me and with my case that moved her to action on my behalf.
So as of this morning, $1338 of the disputed amount has been resolved in my favor! The remaining $1192 worth of denied benefits are also being disputed by me—-and maybe by Sarah, too, since she seems to have taken my part in this miserable situation.
My main point here is that when you find yourself in a seemingly untenable situation like denied insurance claims, don’t take the company’s first response as their final answer. I’ve got too much fightin’ Irish in me to give up that easily! And even though it IS a fight, don’t forget that you just might find a comrade on the other side, who will see your case through to a satisfactory conclusion if you stay connected to her.
And whatever you do, don’t lose her extension number. Those four little digits could save you the very big bucks.
Personal Banking DOES Pay Off!!!
My former creative writing teacher, Terri, commented on my previous post about the benefits of face-to-face banking. I could not agree with her more!
For years, I’ve tried to tell my kids that getting to know your bankers (not to mention the service providers in any number of other businesses with which you deal) is key to getting the type of customer service you’d like to expect. Plus, it’s just more fun to chat for a moment with someone who remembers that your daughter got married, for instance, and wants to know if you brought any pictures, than it is to talk to an anonymous, faceless 1-800 in Indonesia.
Nothing against Indonesia, of course.
To add weight to my argument, and to Terri’s comment, let me just say that Doug and I have only this moment returned from a very gratifying run to the bank. (Which is different than a run ON the bank, you understand. That might be coming next week, if market conditions deteriorate at their current rate. But I digress.) After conducting an unrelated piece of business, we asked about the fees associated with our personal and business checking accounts.
Now, we’ve had these accounts for more than a decade, and I have been negligent enough to never revisit the fees. We’ve been paying (stupidly, I know) $15 per month for the privilege of having a personal checking account, and another $20 per month for our corporate account. Trust me, dealing with this (which I figured would involve changing banks…) has been on my financial to-do list for months, if not years.
But there’s that little thing called “unconscious living” that took over somewhere along the way, and our wallets became the unwitting victim. No more!!!!
Evidently, we’d signed on for a business account with more hubris than we possess these days, an account that was based on us having many, many deposits and writing tons of checks per month. The reality has not matched our enormous imaginations, and therefore we’ve actually qualified all along for a NO-FEE business account. The personal banker, whose personal name is Ken, immediately switched us to the type of business account that is set up to handle fewer monthly transactions and is FREE.
Then Ken took a look at our personal checking. It’s the type of account in which we’re required to keep a minimum balance in order to avoid the monthly fee, but you know what? Minimum balances have never been my strong suit. As Ken scrolled through our several other accounts with his institution, and listened to Doug and I quietly discussing how we would hate to have to move our account to another bank after so long a happy history with this bank, he finally looked up and said, “I’ve waived the minimum balance requirement. You won’t be paying any fees from now on.”
People! This means we’ll be saving, total, $420 during 2009 and going forward. If I think about what we’ve paid out in these service charges during years past, I’ll cry, but it’s time to face financial facts in EVERY area, and make smart moves for our lives NOW. I’m trying to learn not to allow regrets to keep me from changing course, when changing course is necessary and right.
I am grateful that we never pay overdraft notices, and we never pay ATM fees. In fact, the only place I’ve ever used an ATM is in the Old Country. I’m in WalMart all the time, and when I use my debit card, I can get any cash back that I need without paying for the perk.
So, I do have STANDARDS. It’s just that, until now, they’ve been really LOW. No more! We are sewing up the holes in our pockets once and for all.
Now, go make friends with a guy named Ken. Someone who will advocate for you when you want to save an extra $420 this year. You won’t regret it, I promise.
A Return To Thrift
There will be some of you fallible readers who have no idea what I’m talking about when I use the term “passbook savings,” but maybe you’ll understand after I explain the concept.
In the old days, Americans regularly engaged in something called “thrift.” Part of thrift, besides concentrating on spending less than you earn, revolved around the possession of one, or more than one, little booklets.
These booklets, which fit easily into the palm of the owner’s hand, were called passbooks. They were intended to pass back and forth between the owner of the related savings account and the institution itself. Each time a deposit or withdrawal to the account was made, the banker updated the passbook with the current transaction, the pennies in interest the depositor had earned since the last transaction, and the resulting balance in the account.
Then the owner took the passbook back home, where he or she referred to it often, with the result of elation if the account balance was rising, and something akin to despair if the balance had necessarily fallen. The passbook owner viewed that little book like an autobiography, back in the day. It told the story of his level of personal responsibility, his love and concern for his family, and his optimistic hopes for a future free from dependency on the dubious kindness of the government.
Passbook savings accounts have fallen out of favor, I’m afraid. I myself had one that languished for years like an overtold joke in the bottom of my desk drawer. Could there possibly—-in this day of online accounts with no brick or mortar anywhere to be found—-be any financial instrument more antiquated and hopelessly out of date than the humble passbook?
Honestly, I’ve got some food ration tickets left over from my mother’s teenage years during World War II. I’ve got some old books of Green Stamps, too, which Mom was no doubt saving until she had enough to trade them in for a piece of Pyrex. They are ephemeral pieces of history I’d never part with, and I’d decided to hold onto my passbook to add to the pile of nostalgic relics my children might come to enjoy someday.
But then the unthinkable happened. I decided to diversify out of online savings, and into a couple of ancient accounts I still had open here in Kansas City. And so, as I sorted through the contents of my drawer of artifacts, I found my old passbook.
I’ve sent three deposits through the U.S. Postal Service so far. Each time, I write a physical check, fill out a physical deposit slip in my neatest penmanship (I’ve reverted to keeping meticulously neat records of all our financial transactions. A healthy respect for my money might make more of it want to hang around longer….), and place both pieces of paper inside the passbook. Then I mail them in the postage paid envelope the Savings and Loan provides.
If you think I’m weird, so be it, but the simple thrill of receiving the passbook back in the post several days later——freshly updated with my new higher balance and upwards of several cents of interest!—-makes me want to repeat the whole process again right that very second.
These are old-fashioned values, to be sure. Believe me, I’ve been around the thrift/spendthrift block often enough to know what’s what. But I never anticipated that a time would come again in which I’d receive so much instant gratification from deferred gratification.
All thanks to a little piece of Americana called the passbook savings account.
A piece of Americana whose time may be coming around again.
Monday Morning Funnies
This is the kind of stuff that gets said around here, when it’s just Doug and me doing the saying:
Doug, after I’ve evidently just requested that he be my Tech Guy one too many times: “Um, well, I could show you how to do it….”
Katy: “But that defeats the whole purpose of me asking you to do it.”
And then there’s this:
Katy, after reading some medical website that cranked up the paranoia: “Do you think I’m schizophrenic?”
Doug: “Only half the time.”
Suze Orman’s New Book, Free!
For the next few days, you can download Suze Orman’s new book for FREE on Oprah’s sitei.
Sometimes, Suze gets a little spooky for my taste, especially when she goes on about money being “attracted” to me, but I’ve gotta tell you: This book is worth downloading, reading, and applying to your specific situation NOW.
Suze admits that she wrote this book fast, and she finished it in November. (It’s also available in print at any bookstore.) But the whole idea is to give us not only a good overview of exactly how the economy got into the mess we find ourselves in, but to also give us up-to-the-minute action plans, detailing what we can do on our own behalf to escape as much personal fallout as possible.
I read through the 200 pages in the past 24 hours, jotting down notes of the precise steps Doug and I have been putting off, but will now attack. You know how a lot of advisors say to keep enough to cover 3-6 months living expenses in an emergency fund? Suze ups the ante to EIGHT months, based on the idea that if you were to lose your job with unemployment rising, it could easily take that long to find another one.
And guess what? Your home equity line of credit can no longer be considered an emergency fund! Who knew?
Furthermore, Suze says we can’t borrow against a 401K to send our kids to college! Say WHAT?????
Dear fallible readers, if you want some solid advice to help you use 2009 to get on a truly solid financial footing, one that you may just commit to stay on for the rest of your lives, get thee over to Oprah’s site and download Suze’s book.
I believe she truly has a heart for the welfare of the people in this country, and I intend to thank her by spreading the news and praying that many, many millions of citizens begin to follow sane principles of personal finance.
If the way out of this crisis is to spend ourselves into oblivion, as some in Washington and on Madison Avenue would have us believe, Suze hasn’t gotten the memo.
Now, go download yourselves a free book, and let me know what you think.
Stockbroker And Broker…..
Doug was talking to a stockbroker friend of ours the other day. I know, I know. It sounds like an oxymoron, “stockbroker friend.” But, hey, it happens.
Anyway, Doug wondered what this man might consider a relatively safe bet, as far as sectors in which to invest a bit of money.
“Any company that might be tied to the government’s coming ‘put people back to work’ program,” he said. “That’s where the money’s going to move.”
You know, I’ve worked a few jobs that were nothing more than paper pushing, and I vowed I’d never do it again. I knew in my heart that my employer wasn’t coming out ahead on the deal. There was entirely too little real work to justify the expenses an employee created. Plus, the dissatisfaction of knowing that I produced little of value was more than I could handle.
You’ve heard of works programs in which groups of men were paid to dig holes while the groups coming along behind them were paid to fill in the holes, right? Is this the government’s best definition of “putting people back to work”?
Because, honestly, I can’t invest our hard-earned money in companies that will supposedly benefit from such a false economy, even if there are no other good investment opportunities out there at all. It would drive me nuts to know I’d aligned myself financially with any program I so disagree with philosophically.
When the government takes to creating jobs, Doug and I start looking for additional sideline businesses to add to our streams of income.
Our backs aren’t strong enough for ditch digging and the deductibles on health insurance for the self-employed run mighty high these days.
