Monthly Archives: December 2015

Not Letting Go… Yet

I have found out from my publisher that my novel Snow Babies will be delayed even further from publication.  I hope it comes out in 2016, but it I certainly don’t want to hold my breath until it does.  I would be turning undiscovered shades of blue if I do.

But there is no turning back.  Unless the publisher implodes and is no more, I have a contract, and they will publish it either for me or for my heirs.

So today I spent noodling with cover ideas.  They have given me a vague promise to consider my artwork for the cover.  They might even consider my cover designs.  So let me show you what I have been working on.  These are variations on the same design idea.Val at the barn coverxr

The advantage this one has is that the big snowflake is my original drawing.  The drawback is how busy and complex the bottom half is.

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This has the advantage of simplicity and elegance, at least at the bottom.  The snowflake here is real.  (A photo of a real flake.)

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And here I’ve added snow babies to bottom.  No longer as elegant, but giving added information to entice the reader.  The clean-up on this artwork is not yet complete, but I have run out of time for today.

If you’ve got any input you want to add, then by all means, let me know how stinky-awful you find my designs in the comments.  It is, after all, only a shameless attempt to get feedback and commit small acts of heinous self-promotion.

 

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Coasting on the Home Stretch

2015 is a year in which I have been furiously writing.  I made a pact with myself that I would write a blog post every single day.  I am now only 10 more posts from finishing that goal after today.  I have pursued my vow to increase my published novel accomplishments by taking Snow Babies through the editing process with PDMI publishing.  Soon it will be a real book.   Then I will have three published novels, two of which are actually worth something.  I have submitted another contest novel, and made the final judging round in the 2015 YA Novel contest at Chanticleer Book Reviews.  Winning a prize could mean landing a literary agent and becoming somebody who actually gets help from others to tell my goofy little surrealistic stories.  I really don’t have to push all that hard to complete my 2015 goals now.  They are within reach.  I just have to keep plugging a little and coast when I can.

I need to spruce up The Bicycle Wheel Genius and submit it to a publisher.  PDMI has a back log, and as a small independent publisher, they move slowly.  I don’t even have a decision about Superchicken yet.  But therein begins the plans for 2016.  So today’s post is a little short and somewhat content-free because I am coasting.  The final kick in this race is about to start.

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Be Naked More

I admit to being a closet nudist.  By that I mean that I only walk around naked inside my closet.  I flirted with the idea of becoming a nudist once… or as they call it, a naturist.  But I have never overcome the urge not to be naked where anybody can ever see me.  I am a chicken.  Literally.  I look like a plucked chicken when I have no clothes on, especially now that I have all the little pink bleedy spots all over the lower parts of my body.  Bread me and fry me, I am done with this particular metaphor.

I come from Iowa where kids were repeatedly told never to run around like a naked Indian.  I think older people tell you that because they know from experience naked in Iowa in the winter time is tantamount to making parts of yourself into popsicles where you really really really don’t want to get all icy-frozen.  (I mean fingers and toes, of course!  What did you think I meant?)

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But I have learned from long experience of health problems that a little bit of running around like a naked Indian can actually be a beneficial thing to do.  Now, I know that you probably don’t believe I am being completely candid here, and that I may have some kind of pervert’s agenda going on the background… but I have been told it is so not only by naturists, but also by medical professionals.

(http://www.today.com/health/health-benefits-being-naked-how-stripping-down-good-you-t44911)

This link is to an article on Today, Health & Wellness written by

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A Miss Morgan Sampler

Miss Morgan one

 

I told you yesterday the wonderful news about my novel, Magical Miss Morgan.  Since I am still celebrating that, I thought I would share a little peek into that competition novel.  This is chapter two, called a canto in Mickey-speak.  And though it is not the first chapter, it is the place where the largest pile of main characters are introduced.  Chapter one is full of fairies mucking about and searching for a human to help save their kind.

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Canto 2 – Miss Morgan’s Class

“All right, kiddie-winkies,” said Miss Morgan, “now that we have the space for our talking circle created, we must take off our shoes and socks.  Bare feet only!”

“Why must we do that, Miss M?” asked Blueberry Bates, a cute little brown-eyed girl with a very concerned scowl.

Miss Morgan loved the Six-Twos better than any of her other classes… and that was saying something because she really loved them all.  Six-Two, however, had the most Norwall kids in it of all her classes, and Norwall kids were a little more imaginative and empathetic than the Belle City kids, or the Goodwell kids, or the Klemmens kids.  Those other little towns were charming, but not nearly so wondrous.  Besides, she had once been a Norwall kid herself.  It was a very special little Iowa farm town to Miss Morgan, and it meant more to her than all the other three towns in the rural school district combined.

“Who can tell Blueberry why we have to have bare feet for this discussion?” Miss M asked the whole group.

“Well,” said Mike Murphy, a Norwall rapscallion and a Pirate, “we’re studying the Hobbit by Tolkien.   Hobbits all go barefoot all the time.”

“Very good, Michael.  He’s right.  But why does it help for us all to be barefoot?”

“Maybe it helps us feel like the main character Bilbo,” said Billy Klatthammer, the plump son of the Klemmens, Iowa farm implement king.

“Right.  But why is it important to feel like Bilbo?”

“He’s an every-man character,” said Frosty Anderson, a Norwall farm kid.  “We have to identify with him as we travel through the world of Middle Earth.  He’s supposed to be just like us.”

“My, my… Someone was listening when I was talking about the book yesterday.  Thank you very much, Forrest.”

“And I think,” said Barbie Andersen from Belle City, “that people are more sensitive when they are barefooted.   You want us to feel what Bilbo feels and think like Bilbo thinks.”

“That’s very good, Barbie.  I hadn’t thought of that.”

“The real reason,” said Tim Kellogg, Norwall boy and most difficult child in the class, “is that you like the smell of stinky feet.”

Everyone burst out in a belly laugh, including Miss Morgan.

“Okay,” said Miss Morgan, “Now that I can smell all of your stinky feet, I need you to gather around in a circle.  As we take on each question from the study guide, we will go around the circle and get an answer or a comment from each of you.  We will talk about each question until everyone has said at least one thing and we have made an agreement on what the best answer is.”

At that moment, the first-year teacher from next door appeared in the doorway.  “Miss Morgan,” said Miss Krapplemacher, “the noise from this classroom is eroding my standards of discipline again.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Abby,” said Miss Morgan, smiling and speaking through gritted teeth.  She resisted the urge to call her Miss Krabby, the way all Krabby’s science students did.  Miss Krabby insisted on a silent classroom and made students fill out worksheets all period.  “We will try to be quieter.  We are doing a discussion assignment, though.”

“Well, okay.  But stifle the laughing.  It’s hard to achieve serious learning with all the laughing going on next door.”

“We promise we will only talk about depressing things this period,” piped up Tim Kellogg.  “No more laughter this period.”

Bless the little black-hearted teacher’s kid.  Yes, Tim’s father was a teacher, one of the main reasons that Tim was difficult to handle.  Miss Morgan silently appreciated the imp with his special insight into teacher-buttons as Miss Krapplemacher made vibrating fists with both hands and stormed out.  Tim was Miss Krabby’s least favorite science student of all time.

*****

Donner n Silkie

I do promise you too that this book is a fairy tale as well as a story about being a school teacher in the United States.  I have included a Paffooney of Donner and Silkie in this post to show you what some of the main fairy characters look like.  You have to imagine them as less than three inches tall, however, because fairies are no longer big in the modern world.

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Wonderful News!

Cool School Blue

My novel, Magical Miss Morgan, in manuscript form has made it to the final round in the Chanticleer Book Reviews’ novel-writing contest called the Dante Rossetti Awards for Young Adult Novels 2015.   It is listed as one of 29 finalists that have been identified so far, and this year the competition judges are still reviewing manuscripts for possible inclusion in the field of finalists.  The judging has actually run past the announcement deadline.  So it is a large field to compete against for the actual prizes, but it is a huge honor to make it this far.

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The Finalists Authors and Titles of Works that have made it to the Short-list of the Dante Rossetti 2015 Novel Writing Contest are as of Dec. 15, 2015. (Please check back often as we are still processing the Rossetti 2015 Finalists. We will add OFFICIAL FINALIST POSTING to this post when it is complete. Thank you for your understanding.)

  • Gail Selvig for O.W.L.S. and Other Creatures of the Night
  • Luke Evans for Hex
  • Jo Swanson for The Last Rodeo in Kingdom Come
  • Lis Anna-Langston for Tupelo Honey
  • KB Shaw for Neworld Series
  • Alix Nichols for What If It’s Love
  • Glen Alan Burke for Jesse
  • Ben Hutchins for Lackawanna
  • Jesse Atkin for  The Flying Man
  • Verity Croker for May Day Mine
  • Robert Joseph for Long Ago and Far Away
  • Aiden Riley for The Red
  • Pamela Beason for Race with Danger
  • Melissa A. Craven for  Emerge: The Awakening
  • Nikki McCormack for The Girl and the Clockwork Cat
  • Patrick Hodges for Joshua’s Island
  • Michael Burnam, MD for The Last Stop
  • Kathe Maguire for The Harriet Club
  • Suzanne de Montigny for The Shadow of the Unicorn II: The Deception
  • Laurisa White Reyes for Memorable
  • Mike Hartner for I, Mary: Book 3 in the Crofter Saga
  • Olivia Wildenstein for Ghostboy, Chameleon & the Duke of Graffiti
  • Suzanne de Montigny for The Shadow of the Unicorn II: The Deception
  • Stephanie DeLuca for Pilgrims 
  • Danielle Burnette for The Spanish Club
  • Cody Wagner for Camp NO Where – A Healing Home for Gay Kids
  • Michael Beyer for Magical Miss Morgan
  • Michael Sarrow for Mistress of Marrowglen

LIST TO CONTINUE — Thank you for your patience. We are working through the Dante Rossetti entries for 2015. 

This marks the second time one of my works has gotten this far in a writing contest.  In 2013 I was able to get my novel Snow Babies on an even shorter short list of finalists, though it did not win any of the available prizes.  But Snow Babies is now soon to be a real book published by PDMI LLC publishers.  I have hopes that before too much longer, Magical Miss Morgan will be too.

class Miss Mcover

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Plans in Gingerbread

After yesterday’s Grinchy post about politics, I needed to follow up with something more Christmassy and generous (though technically, as a Jehovah’s Witness not yet disfellowshipped for being an atheist, I am not supposed to celebrate Christmas).  Now that I have alienated all my conservative friends and family, as well as my religious friends, I will create an art project that expresses the good feeling life gives me even as I approach its end.

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I bought a Gingerbread House Kit along with some chocolate frosting and sugar decorations.  I intend to build it and decorate it in my own fashion, being creative and detailed.  I have kids that have already promised to eat it.  But first it will be a subject for photo Paffoonies that I will make with flair and the greatest of care and everything else that I might dare.

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Thank God I Wasn’t Born a Republican

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Yes, I know my parents were both Eisenhower Republicans back in the 1950’s when I was born.  But Iowa was always far enough removed from the racial tensions of the South and the Southwest to keep me mostly insulated from the politics of hate.  Besides, the bad guys were Southern Democrats back then.  John Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson turned them all into Republicans by declaring that black people and Hispanic people were a part of that “All men are created equal” nonsense referred to by left wingers as the “Civil Rights Movement”.   Dwight Eisenhower warned us against “the Military-Industrial Complex”.  In the 80’s the Reagan Republicans embraced the “M.I.C.” as an essential part of free-market capitalism.   Poor President Eisenhower would not recognize his party today.  Today they stand for giving tax breaks to the wealthy and the corporations that make them wealthy.  As well as standing for taking food stamps away from poor families who haven’t earned them because they only work two or three minimum-wage jobs.  We can’t afford to be giving money away to people who probably do work harder than corporate CEO’s who make tens of thousands of dollars a minute, but their work is obviously not as valuable.

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Sarah Palin was recently resurrected to comment on the Republican debate of 12/15/2015.

Sarah Palin says the front-runners in Iowa, (Donald Trump and Ted Cruz) would both make a good next president from the Republican-Tea-Party point of view.  Horrors!  The scary thing is, not only do these Republican opinion-leaders really believe things Sarah Palin says, they may actually be less intelligent than she is.  Ted Cruz would like to implement a uniform 17% flat tax.  This actually sounds good to Republican ears.  Poor Republicans don’t seem to realize that it will allow the wealthy to pay even less in taxes.  Paying 17% instead of 35% means millions, if not billions of extra dollars to pocket for Donald Trump, Mitt Romney, and the Koch Brothers.  It will also mean that middle-income and poor people will be paying a larger percent of everything the government spends.  Hence, reduced spending falls on social safety-nets and anything else that costs money but benefits people who are not rich.  In fact, Republicans will insist on increasing military spending, so the economy is probably doomed to depths deeper than the Great Recession of 2008.

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Donald Trump is too often tempted to lash out with opinions apparently influenced by the full moon.

The issue of immigration is still the thing that galvanizes the Republican base the most.  Fear of foreigners, Muslims, and Mexicans are equated with fear of murderers, rapists, and terrorists.  It is a roaring flame of fear that is being fanned not only by Donald (ook!) Trump, but also every Republican candidate.  Some of them, though, use slightly less oily words than the Donald (ook-ook!) when fanning those flames.  The good news for people like me who hope no Republican can beat whoever the Democratic nominee is, resides in the fact that Marco Rubio, the candidate most likely moderate enough to win it all, will never be the Republican nominee because he’s too soft on immigration (“too soft” meaning that he actually wants a process approved for immigrants to become citizens, something the Republican base fiercely opposes.

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I really think the only way a Republican can win the Presidency is if they start slicing and dicing the candidates they have, and sewing up a new composite candidate that has the best of all of them.  John Kasich’s common sense is only 25% evil.  They could use that.  Rubio’s immigration views are only heartless when it comes to Muslims.  They desperately need a heart, even if it does only beat half the time.  Ted Cruz could contribute the fearlessness needed in a leader, although to use the immense brass balls in the construct would require an almost anatomically impossible large empty space to keep them in… like maybe Donald Trump’s head (although the ego would have to be extracted from it to make room).  They could also use Rand Paul’s hair for comic relief.  The only drawback to the plan, as made obvious by the most recent debate performance, is that their candidate would be made entirely from monster parts.

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Playing With Dolls Again

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Yes, having hoarding disorder can be a pain.  I channel it into collecting, especially things like 12-inch action figures and Barbie Dolls.  But it becomes such a mania that even the rules don’t contain it.  These mint-in-box dolls with mutant big heads and bean bodies are part of a wacky collection that has caught hold of me with about the same ferocity as the flu.  They are Monster High dolls to go along with the TV cartoons and direct-to-video movies used primarily to sell these ultra-weird toys to little girls.  Supposedly each of the girls in the series is the daughter of a movie monster.  Operetta above is the daughter of the Phantom of the Opera.  Isi Dawndancer claims to be the daughter of a deer-spirit… a Native-American-style monster thingy.  I suppose there is a benign rationalization behind these things other than trying to get little girls to identify with and emulate monsters.  Believe me, from my years as a teacher, no little girl really needs encouragement to embrace the monster within.  And that sort of thing has negative consequences.

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Yes, the picture immediately above is of my Monster High collection as it stood a year ago.   I have now added to it.  And am admitting as reasonably as I can that it is probably evidence of looming insanity.  Let me show you the new acquisitions from the current collecting year;

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Besides Operetta and Isi, I have added the daughter of the Loch Ness Monster, the daughter of the rat king, and, apparently, the daughter of the man-eating plant from the movie Little Shop of Horrors.  What is even worse, there are more dolls out there and available to this collection.  I have followed the rules and limited my spending, but I wasted birthday and Christmas money from my mother on this stuff… and probably will do so again.  I suppose it is because I don’t spend my toy-money on more manly things like guns and political donations to Donald Trump.  But I have to satisfy my lurking doubts with the notion that the most impressive collections of things like this in museums are probably put together by fools like me with raging hoarding disorder.

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Crying All The Time

Ima mickey

The horrible truth is, life would not be very funny and filled with laughter if no one ever cried.  And I am not just saying that because saying something is its own opposite is a cheap way of sounding wise.  You honestly can’t be happy if you have never been sad.  Nothing makes you appreciate what you have more than the experience of pain and loss.  I call everything I write “humor” because I defend myself against the darkness with a wacky wit and an ability to laugh when I am in pain.  Some of the funniest men who ever lived were creatures of great sadness.  Robin Williams may have died of it.

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A beautiful portrait by artist Emily Stepp

And isn’t it true that the funniest movies are the ones that have at least one part of the story that makes you tear up?  I have been avoiding Downton Abbey even though my wife loves it, because I knew it was good enough to make me cry… a lot.  My wife makes fun of me when movies make me cry… or TV shows… or television commercials during the Superbowl.  She grins at me while tears are gushing.  And therein lies a connection between laughing and crying.  At least somebody gets a laugh out of the pain from a sensitive heart.

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So, you may have noticed that I confessed to avoiding Downton Abbey.  But I must also confess that I gave in.  She is watching every episode from the beginning in preparation for the final season coming up.  She made me watch it with her.  That goofy British soap opera set a hundred years ago is most definitely a comedy.  It is a comedy of manners.  Servants versus the upper class.  Scheming footmen like Thomas Barrows are almost cartoon villains as they plot their nearly infinite schemes of advantage and subterfuge.  You laugh when karma catches up to them, and they take a beating or lose their job.  And yet, like soap opera villains of the past, they never stay defeated.  Thomas found a coward’s way out of World War One and made his way back into the good graces of the Crawley family, achieving a higher rank in the staff than he had before.  And Dame Maggie Smith as Dowager Lady Grantham is the scathing-est of wits, surprising us with her shallow upper-class prejudices one moment, and showing a depth of humanity and compassion the next.  It is a comedy in that it plays off the soap opera form with exquisite self awareness.  But it drops the bottom out from under your feet constantly.  You fall directly into the tiger-traps of tragedy.  I cried when favorite characters died, like when Lady Sybil unexpectedly dies in childbirth, and when Matthew Crawley is killed in a car accident immediately after the birth of his long-awaited son.  When Valet John Bates goes to prison for murder though his first wife actually committed suicide, I became a fountain of gushing tears.  I cried again when he got out of prison.  I cried when his wife Anna was raped by a visiting lord’s valet.  And as that part of the plot works itself out in the next few episodes, I’m sure I’ll cry again.  My wife has been having a barrel full of belly laughs at my expense.  But because I have struggled through the depths of personal pain with these characters, and love them like they were real people, I laugh all the harder at their wit and ready comebacks and ultimate victories.  The only difference between a comedy and a tragedy is the comedy’s happy ending.

So I will continue to laugh and cry and call everything I write humor.  Forgive me when I’m not so funny.  And laugh with me sometimes, too.  Even laugh at me… because that’s laughter too.

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The Devil in the Details

There tends to be a good reason behind certain expressions.  Let me take a moment to explain it to you in the vaguest sort of way meant to protect the innocent, the privacy of the sufferer, and my privacy, and yet still get at that little old devil who is making my life a living hell.

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The problem stems from factors beyond my control, and the mental health of a family member who is not me, but I am responsible for paying for, because I can clearly see what the problem is (as can doctors and licensed practitioners)  while other members of my family (mainly for religious reasons) can’t see.  And, of course, you can imagine who the insurance company, who is supposed to pay for at least part of it, wants to believe.  I am the one who sat through the day in the ER two years ago, giving the best support and care I could while footing the bill.  (The truth is, Jehovah’s Witnesses have a complicated time in the ER because they don’t accept blood transfusions, and they worry about the practice of Psychiatry leading to some kind of evil mind control.)  In the ER it was determined for the sake of safety and protection of the patient, we needed to be sent to a psychiatric hospital.  Of course, the insurance gets to tell you where and what doctors you can work with, so we were sent to University Behavioral Health Hospital in Denton, the one facility that my family has determined CANNOT perform any more services for my family on pain of religious condemnation and angry black stares that ripple through time from then to now.    A weeks’ worth of time in UBH, determined by UBH to maximize profits, led to a bill of over a thousand dollars payable by me.  That, added to my own medical bills (from six incurable diseases) and the bill from the ER that the insurance pays less than half of because of deductibles, added up to a debt that maxed out my credit cards and brought me to the brink of bankruptcy. (A thing I narrowly avoided by engaging a lawyer for debt-reduction services).   I was forced to retire from teaching at that point because the time away from my job for the family member’s illness, plus the work missed from my own illnesses, was reducing my income to the point that I might’ve owed the school money at the end of every working month otherwise.  I was fortunate to have enough years in service to have a good pension.

Now, of course you know that mental health conditions aren’t the kind of thing that goes away by taking a pill… or even a hundred different pills.  It requires constant monitoring, prescribing, and proper therapy.  UBH will not even release a patient unless you can prove that you have set up appointments with both a psychiatrist and a therapist.  We found excellent ones of each.  But, of course, along comes the insurance company to have their say.  (This insurance company shall remain nameless… but it rhymes with FAetna… and that is not a capitalization error, no matter what the spell-checker says.)  We lost the services of one of the best adolescent psychiatrists in North Texas because he refuses to take the crappy insurance.  I don’t blame him.  I blame him less now that I know so many more of the devilish details than I did then.  So, I tried to replace the good doctor.  I called the insurance provider for a list of doctors we could use.  I was given only two names.  The first doctor, a well-respected lady psychiatrist, let us make an appointment.  When I was filling out the required paperwork in the office on the day of the visit, we were informed that due to a technicality, the only way we could see that doctor would be to pay 100% 0f the bill.  The receptionist graciously let us end the appointment without charging us the late-cancellation fee.  We went to the other doctor, one that had unpleasant memories of my family from UBH, and were rejected by the doctor.  So… no psychiatrist anywhere in the State would treat my family ever again thanks to the crappy insurance.  (I tried to think of another adjective besides “crappy” to use here, but couldn’t think of any I could use that would not melt my keyboard.)

Now, recently, we have lost our only other professional help.  We had been seeing the excellent therapist weekly for over two years.  Previous insurance had no problem paying for the preventive services he provided.  I got by with a simple co-pay every week.  But when we had to transition to crappy FAetna, a stealth problem occurred.  Apparently there was a form that needed to be filled out to transfer the payment obligation from one provider to the next.  The form had an expiration date on it that absolved the crappy insurance from any payments at all once it was passed.  They, of course, did not tell the poor therapist about the existence of this critical document until long after the expiration date.  All claims during that time were recently nullified and payments denied.  We actually owe the doctor doing the therapy well over a thousand dollars. But he knows we can’t afford it, and he feels bad that it was caused by an error that was technically his.    We are still trying to dipsy-doodle through the nightmare health-care system to find needed services.  I have had my fill.  I don’t try to call Satan’s member-services department for the crappy insurance any more.  They won’t tell me the truth, and they won’t do anything helpful… only things that are harmful.

If I were to go to the main offices of FAetna Crappy Insurance Corporation, I would fully expect the front doors to be guarded by a massive three-headed dog-thingy.  The receptionists would all be red-skinned succubi with fangs and horns.  You would have to descend in an elevator to the Pit of Hell to see any of their superiors… You know, like Beelzebub, Asmodeus, and Lucifer.  Apparently all the premiums we pay to health insurance companies entitle us only to arguments with intractable employees who don’t even know what the word “approved” means.  So, the Devil is indeed using the details to rule in Hell… and he is doing a Helluvah job.

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