Insurance: A SiCKO system

OK, so I mentioned that I went to see SiCKO on Friday. And I did really enjoy it. If you've seen any other Michael Moore movies, you know that he clearly takes sides on issues. A lot of people see him as a bit of a liberal nut. But he has always said how grateful he is that he lives in a place where he can voice his opinion when he disagrees with the powers that be. I think his willingness to stand up and speak out is very American, and very patriotic. He is using his freedom of speech more than most people.

That being said, I think SiCKO is probably one of his least political pieces. Whether you are Democrat, Republican, Green Party, Independent or something else, I bet you have a horror story that has to do with health care, and more specifically, with an insurance company. This movie brings those horrors to light, and hopefully will motivate people to do something. To stop feeling so beaten by the system that we accept it, but rather rise up and demand change. To stop letting the money behind this system buy our government. To put more value on all human life than on a system that allows the rich to get richer while less rich people die from lack of care. (Jen mentions this in her post one plus two: sicko. I look forward to her writing more about it)

One thing that I don't think the movie addresses, and I would like to know more about, is medical research. Most advances in medicine, whether it be drugs or machines or new procedures, happens here in America. How can we keep funding the research but not the large CEO bank accounts?

But the thing that really got me thinking was INSURANCE. We have insurance so that we will be "covered" when we need it. Not just health insurance, which this movie focuses on, but home owners insurance and car insurance. Life insurance. We pay money into this insurance every year. If we are lucky, we rarely use it. But then something big comes along. An injury. A car accident. Cancer. A hurricane.

Living in Southeast Louisiana in the wake of Hurricane Katrina I have heard more horror stories of insurance than I could begin to count. A neighbor whose home was literally split in half by one large pine tree had a sign in from of his home that said "ALLSTATE: Am I in Good Hands???" I couldn't help but think of these stories when watching SiCKO, because it's obvious that the same principals applied. Most insurance companies did not want to help all these people that they had been taking money from for years. They quibbled over whether or not damage was done from winds or from floods (it was a HURRICANE! Wind and water come together. You can not separate the two. Unless of course the flood comes from the breaking down of levees, which were damaged by the hurricane, and so then even there you see that it's all interralated. And don't even get me started on that...) It would take months for an adjuster to come and look at a damaged home. And then the amount that they assessed the damage for would not even come close to covering the cost of repairs (even PreK, but as you can imagine, costs went through the roof - no pun intended - after the storm) Insurance companies waited and waited and waited to write checks as they fought with our government over whether or not homeowners could rebuild in that area or not. Meanwhile, people still had to pay their mortgage, as well as pay for wherever they were living instead of their home. Insurance companies would offer homeowners a buyout - insulting things like $20,000 for your home, but taking the money meant you could never come back and ask for more. People took this in desperation.

It became so obvious that the insurance companies were not interested in helping people through this tragedy. They were concerned about losing money. About not having such an incredibly large profit that year. They began refusing to write new policies in the area, and people wanting to move couldn't sell their homes because of it. They raised prices in order to keep their profits.

I do have to put in a disclaimer here: my insurance company, AAA, treated us very well after the storm We had very minor damage, but it was quickly and fairly assessed, a check was written in a timely fashion, and we were called with an offer of money to cover our evacuation expenses. Most people practically fall over when I tell them how well we were treated.

It seems to me that the idea behind insurance is that we all put our money in a pot, to be used in case of emergencies. We hope that we never have to use it. But when we do, the money from that pot should be taken out to help a person in need. And maybe they will get a lot more than they ever put in. Maybe they will get the money that I put in but never needed. I am fine with this idea. I like the idea of helping someone when they need it, and trusting that the help will be there when I need it.

But our insurance companies clearly do not work this way. The system is broken. And it needs to be fixed.

You can click on the SiCKO button in the sidebar to learn more about what you can do about the broken health care system in America.

How I Spent My 11th Wedding Anniversary

This morning I woke up, like any other day. Showered, got dressed. Friday is my husband's day off, so I dropped off the May Queen at the neighbors' house so that my husband and I could go see a movie: SiCKO (excellent, will post more on that later, but let me here say go, go, go and see this movie!). Very romantic to be sure. We came home. I picked up The May Queen from the neighbors (my 15 year old babysitter looked very confused when she asked "How was the, uh, documentary? And what was it about again? ... Oh.") On the way back home, grabbed the mail from the mailbox. Noticed 2 greeting cards addressed to my husband and me.

Had the dawning realization that TODAY IS MY ANNIVERSARY, AND I FORGOT ALL ABOUT IT.

Well, not all about it. I thought about it a few days ago. Even thought about the card I needed to get ready for the big day. But today? Completely slipped my mind. I walked into the house. My husband was on the couch, reading the paper.

"Today is our 11th anniversary," I said. "Happy Anniversary. We've made it 11 years!" (I have always felt that each year I deserve some sort of award for putting up with my husband for another year. And likewise, he deserves one for putting up with me).

Later in the day we dealt with The May Queen's stubborn rudeness in refusing to even say hello to her Grandparents when they called. We had a stunning dinner of frozen chicken patties, Pringles, left over veggies and blueberries. I told my husband that we used to eat those chicken patties all the time when we were first married, and so really, this was a meal of rememberance. He knew I was making it up. If I had thought this through that yummy new pesto chicken I made yesterday? I would have made it today. Or the steak we had a few days ago. But no, I pulled out the frozen, breaded, chicken patties. Classic. I did, however, manage to pull our unity candle (the one we lit at our wedding, 11 years ago) out of the closet and light it for this romantic dinner.

Then, I went outside to mow the lawn, racing with the black cloud that grew closer every moment. For the last 5 minutes of the mowing it was pouring rain, but I wasn't about to leave that last bit unmowed!

As I was reading the May Queen her bedtime story, I was thinking about this wonderful child that is the product of our 11 years together. I glanced over at her, to see her with her big toe completely in her mouth. When I asked her why she told me that she likes to do that. And in case you were wondering, she reports that it doesn't necessarily taste good, but it tastes like skin. It took me a while to recompose myself so I could finish reading Chester. I kept giggling.

So. That was my romantic day. Last year, we planned a cruise. This year: SiCKO, child slamming doors, frozen chicken patties, mowing in the rain, child sucking on her toe.

Happy Anniversary to Us.

Of course, hubby got really sea sick on that cruise, so really, maybe this was better.

Tiaras and Mommies

A while ago Joy, Of Course! wrote in her one word meme that she was not wearing a tiara. That made me laugh. But I have to tell you that today I type this wearing a tiara. It is hot pink, and it is MINE, not my daughters (although you and I both know it will end up in her dress-up box, but still...) I won this "Perfectly Pink Tiara" at the annual banquet of my local MOMS Club. I won the "Miss Ellen Degeneres" award - aka "most enthusiastic and funny" (thanks, girls!)

So I thought this might be a good time, while wearing my tiara, to tell you about my experience with Mommy groups.

When the May Queen was 3 months old, I finally went to a group designed for mommies and their infants (under 1) held at the hospital where MQ was born. It was run by a wonderfully patient woman who was both trained in parenting and an experienced mom of four. She was nonjudgmental and very caring. The group was a time for everyone to talk about their concerns and their joys, and for others to respond. Our fabulous leader spoke words of wisdom, certainly, but what she mostly did was taught us to trust ourselves as mommies. This group met every other week, but many of us began walking weekly, meeting regularly at the park, scrapbooking in the afternoons, and having holiday parties together. We continued to do this long after we "graduated" out of the class. This group also provided for me a friend who would become closer than I realized as we ate lunch together once a week, and our girls grew up together. Moving away from this fabulous group of women was difficult.

So when I arrived here in Louisiana and a friend at church mentioned The MOMS Club, I immediately joined her for an event, and wasted no time getting involved. The MOMS Club is an international organization (click on the link to find a chapter near you). There is no "qualified leader" of this organization, but rather it is led by a board of dedicated moms just like myself. What it provided for me was a full calendar of activities outside of the home, a chance to meet other moms, and a way to learn about the activities available in our new community. I have enjoyed being a part of this club immensely, and sing it's praises regularly, even though it did not provide the close friendships I found in the other group. A lot of that is just luck, I suppose.

Mommy groups don't work for everyone. But for me, who lives far away from family and friends, who thrives on activity and adult interaction, and who needed someone to talk to who would understand rather than go all glazed-out-eyes on me when I fretted over the May Queens naps (or lack of naps, as the case would be), they were a life saver. A true beacon of hope when my bag of entertaining tricks was empty by 9:30 in the morning.

As the May Queen draws closer to starting Kindergarten (which is all day down here) I know that my time and dedication to this group of Mommies will change. It already has. But I will never cease to recommend it to people.

and the Rockets Red Glare

Growing up in Michigan, the fireworks I experienced were the big, fancy kind. Most years we headed to Detroit to see the fireworks along the river, listening to the Detroit Symphony play along. It was art. It was beautiful. We'd go early to get a good spot: spreading out a blanket in the park, picnicking and people watching. We would also enjoy fireworks over the lake in our own small town. Nearly every town put on their own display.

Personal fireworks were not legal. Sure, we had sparklers and those little things that snake along the ground, but not fireworks.

The last 2 states I have lived in allow much more in the way of personal fireworks. It's something I'm not used to.

After the May Queen was born, I had lots of reasons to hate the fireworks going off all around me. They were keeping my baby awake! Don't you people know that children are trying to sleep?!

Once I finally got her to sleep, I stepped outside to watch what was going on around me. The fireworks were pretty measly, by my high standards. But instead of enjoying their beauty, I was terrified. All around me were the sounds of explosions. Fire was flying through the air. Smoke. I couldn't help but think of what it would be like to have those same sights, sounds and smells in my neighborhood, and to know it wasn't a celebration. To be in the midst of war. Of an attack. I began crying at the end of my driveway. There was a war going on on the other side of the world. A war that "we" were engaged in. What mothers were huddling in their home, terrified? What children were they trying to calm down enough so they could sleep?

I think it was that same year that in our neighborhood a young father was killed by an errant firework. 3 teenagers took a legal firework and "improved" it. It shot straight into a neighbors chest, while his daughter stood next to him. 3 teenagers who should now be in college are instead in prison, serving sentences for manslaughter. A man who should be raising his children is gone. Now that's some celebrating our freedom, huh?

Today I once again stood at the end of the driveway, watching fireworks. The fireworks in this neighborhood are a little fancier than the ones I watched from my driveway in California. But it still creeps me out. Really creeps me out.

Why is it that we celebrate our freedom by blowing things up? Why is it that we spend so much money on something that is so unsafe, but can't find the money to donate to a homeless shelter, or a cultural institution, or a church?

Fireworks no longer hold beauty for me. They represent fear. Destruction. Loss. Terror.

Tonight, the Glare is blinding.

How I Met Harry

I resisted meeting Harry for years. All my friends told me "you'll love him." Family told me "He's just your type." People tried to set us up on dates. I resisted. He seemed juvenile. I wasn't interested. My life was full. I didn't need Harry.

Then, I was doing a play, and EVERYONE was talking about Harry. Finally, I gave in. I decided to find out what all the fuss was about. But I figured he couldn't possibly live up to the hype.

My friend hooked me up. One night, she handed me Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, as well as Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. (and yes, I'm an American, and so I had to read the Sorcerer's Stone and have Dumbledore talk about Lemon Drops. I can't control the publishers. Don't blame me.)

Three days later I was back at rehearsal, books in hand, asking for Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. My friend was still reading it. Exasperated, I turned to my public library, also checking out Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

I was hooked. I loved the books. When I got within 60 pages or so of the end, I couldn't put the book down. Harry wasn't juvenile, at least not in a bad way. He was great! I loved him, and Hermione and Ron and Neville and Dumbledore and.... I excitedly joined in the conversations at rehearsal. Harry Rocks! Later that year the movie came out, and we all gathered to see it together on opening day. We cheered! I wore my "wizard pants" (covered in stars). We talked excitedly afterwards about the movie. (I have to say, as the sequels came out I have become increasingly frustrated with the things they have left out, among other quibbles) I have purchased each new book on its release date, and gobbled it up. I am currently rereading the series in preparation for the release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. It will be an exciting and terrible day, indeed.

Harry got me reading again. Me and thousands of 10 year olds across the globe. I had gotten a bit burned out in college, too many literature classes that ended with me falling asleep on the couch with Lord Jim stuck to my face, and in the 5 years since I had graduated was only reading for pleasure occasionally. But after meeting Harry, I dove back in. I read the whole Chronicle of Narnia series. I started going to the library all the time. I was hooked. Again. On reading. I have Harry to thank. Why oh why did I resist for so long?

How about you? I know there are lots of Harry fans out there. Surely you have interesting stories about how you met Harry. Or why you have resisited meeting Harry. Or perhaps (GASP!) why you don't like Harry. I'd love to hear them.

Cookies part 2: Memories

Lest you worry that I've turned into a domestic goddess and have made cookies 2 days in a row, relax. This is really just a continuation of yesterday's cookies. Leftovers, perhaps.

I find that nearly every time I make cookies, particularly chocolate chip, but other kinds as well, I think back to Sunday afternoons at Sally's house when I was about 12. We would gather in her kitchen on a fairly regular basis to make chocolate chip cookies. We would then use about half the dough to make cookies, and retire to the living rooms with the rest of the dough to eat off of spoons as we watched Top Gun.

Yesterday, as I was cleaning up, I wondered if Sally thinks about that when SHE makes cookies. I haven't seen nor heard from her in years, but I think of her often.

And then I began to wonder what random things make people think of me. We all have memories that come back to us frequently, set off by these ordinary things, like baking cookies. Things that for some reason or another are imbedded in our memories, and intrinsically tied to the event. Do other people harken back to the same memories that I do? What things make my long forgotten friends think of me? How many things are hidden in the back of my cobwebbed brain that I never think of, but that other people frequently call to mind? And what makes someone tie a person to a certain memory?

I recently heard from a friend of mine that she thinks of me whenever she and her girls eat bananas. Bananas? She explained that there are stickers on her Chiquita bananas, and one of them says something like "Put this sticker on your forehead" Well, I used to take the stickers off of fruit (usually oranges, but never bananas, as I just recently began to be able to handle the texture of them) and stick them on my forehead. Why? I don't know. But I would do this, and then walk around with them (I know, I was the essence of cool). As choir was after lunch in HS, I would often have one on my head in choir. Thus, the memory. As I think about this, legions of my campers probably think of me for the same thing, as everyday at lunch when I was a counselor I would stick the navel orange sticker on my forehead, and then later stowe it away on the headboard. Kids used to put their own stickers on my head.

But I digress. Memories seem to do that to me.

So, it just got me wondering about the things that make other people call me to mind. Not that I'll ever really get an answer to that. But there are probably lots of people out there who think of me everytime they __________. And that's kind of a nice thought. As long as they think of me fondly.

P.S. As I write this, I am nibbling on a little bit of cookie dough I stashed away yesterday. It's good to be the Mommy. Don't tell the May Queen. I don't want to share.

baking cookies

The May Queen and I made cut-out cookies this afternoon. It seems as if my learning curve on making these cookies is low. I have learned that frosting them never goes well, and that sprinkles are really were it's at, so we just sprinkle them before they hit the oven. But I always forget to add less butter and more flour if I'm going to roll out the sugary dough and try to cut shapes into it, so for several tries I put the dough on the wax paper, and found I couldn't even begin to roll it out. After adding lots more flour, I could finally get it to roll without sticking to me, the wax paper, and the rolling pin. Then, I always forget that the thicker the dough, the easier it is to get the cookies onto the baking sheet. Finally, by the last batch, I have it down, and I have the perfect thickness for perfectly shaped cookies that transfer beautifully to the tray. So there are a few cookies that actually look like frogs and stars and witches (there are no holiday boundaries when making cut-out cookies at my house) instead of misshapen lumps.

But one thing I never forget, and the May Queen learned very early on:
The dough is the best part. Sneak bites early and often.