My own personal CopCam story

 Just as on TV. Cop approaches my car; I'm on my way to Bennington VVH.  I don't remember if he introduced himself. The weather was cold, so when I lowered the window, he said first, "Do you know why I stopped you?'  I didn't so he told me--expired registration.  Then he asked for my license, registration and insurance. I handed him the registration and insurance, which I keep in the glovebox, but told him my license was in my purse on the floor behind my seat, and I couldn't reach it without getting out of the car. He said he didn't need it and took my registration and insurance back to his car. I assume he did whatever it is they do with it. Then he returned, handed them back to me and told me I should get my car inspected as soon as I could. Very few words were spoken, almost none by me. I'd never make it to the video episodes.

Lewis Lent: Our Encounter

 One beautiful summer day, several decades ago, We, Danny, Jimmy and I met this man, in the movie theater in the Clifton Country Mall. Of course, we didn't know it then. Danny had wanted to see a certain movie that his siblings had seen. (--a music film, maybe Rattle and Hum?) I think Danny was 10 and Jimmy 9 years old.  The day was young and the weather was perfect, so we were the only ones in the theater when the movie started. The boys chose seats front and center and I sat in the back row, behind their seats. After a while, Jimmy evidently got bored and was rolling a quarter in the center aisle, to the right,  no problem since we were the only people there. At first. About 20 or so minutes into the film, a man entered through the left side and sat in that section. Then a short time later, I noticed he had moved to the row behind the boys, right behind them. I started to see a red flag, but then thought it was  center  seating. After a while, I think it was Danny's  idea, they changed their seats. Jimmy may still have been in the aisle to the right. Shortly after, the man moved behind them again. This time Danny felt  weirded out, and he and  Jimmy came back to sit with me, and I told them they had met their first pervert, little knowing his true nature.

  When the movie ended I told the boys to stay in their seats. I wanted to see where the man might have gone. I walked out the left doorway and there standing with his back to the wall, just waiting, was the man. I looked right at him and noted that he was dressed in what men substitute teachers might have worn, dark green dockers and a short-sleeved sports shirt. I left him standing there and went back to the boys. Danny, who must have had  greater insight than I, was mad at  me for leaving them alone in the now empty theater.

   Normally, they would have visited the bathroom in the theater and we would have had lunch at McDonald's then in the mall, but this day I wanted to put all this behind us and we went to McDonald's  in Mechanicville. As the 3 of us were leaving, Danny noticed the man and that he had gone into the theater bathroom.  I learned later that the bathroom in the theater accessed the outdoors.  

  After his capture, I recognized his face, knew he was the guy in the theater.  I later learned that he was living in the church on Old Route 146 in exchange for doing some maintenance. I learned also that a  classmate had told Danny that his family had belonged to that church and had frequently invited this man to their  home  in Stillwater, where he had played board games with the younger siblings. The classmate was later told by his parents not to reveal this information, but he did confide it.  I add that the investigators, searching for the girl's body, at one time investigated the area near Route 146 and Route 9, near the church and within walking distance from the mall.

 This man was an unusual serial killer, experts in such say, because he preyed on both boys and girls. He was caught when, in broad daylight on the streets of Pittsfield, he attempted to abduct a young girl. He grabbed her backpack, but she, being a savvy child, slipped out of both jacket and backpack and ran screaming for help. His car was parked nearby and in it was the equipment he used in abductions.

  So, parents, always be on guard. Trust no one.

"I call it the groceries."

 In truth, I don't pay much attention to prices at the grocery store. I live alone, don't do much in the way of cooking, and so just pay the bill, usually without even looking at the prices. But today I was out of my basic supplies and went to the grocery store to replenish. I bought about a dozen usual items and the bill was $91.03, and that was with $10 worth of coupons. So I looked at the bill. 

  I don't eat eggs, but use them for cooking; one dozen was 6.49.  I stopped buying Oreos but since I didn't have anything sweet in the house, and I gave up candy for Lent, I  bought a package for 4.99, when I remember a price of 3.49 and then 3.99. A loaf of white bread cost 4.49 and a pack of ginger ale on sale for 7.69.  A small package of chicken was 6.00. But the most surprising cost was for a single sweet potato. I don't especially like them but the online cardiologist recommended them as nutritious. It was medium sized and cost 1.79.  For a raw potato.

Soapy

 I remember a time when Soap Operas were the lifeblood of stay at home housewives or even others, including my mother-in-law who faithfully followed a few of her "stories" as she called them. Not my mother, who would not have turned the tv on in the daytime, not during any  time when you could be outdors.

  But the soaps are still on. I just heard a woman on the Y and the R confide to a friend that her mother had been found, after having been kidnapped and held hostage in an abandoned psychiatric facility. Because no one knew why, they were afraid it might happen again.

"Dear Diary" oops I mean Blog

 So today, as the story goes----I don't really mind because I have nothing else I have to do.  Since my insurance information was incorrect, I wanted to make sure I could accomplish what the script had ordered. I navigated the telephone ladder to the ordering doctor's site in Albany, and eventually spoke to a real person, a nurse. I tried to explain my concern, but she said as she couldn't see the script herself, she couldn't help. I said I had faxed it, as that was one of the offered means of contact, and offered to do so again. She said that wouldn't help, because "there are thousands of pages of faxes." OK, I gave up on that.

 But before I drove to the hospital lab, and risked the chance of being turned away because of false insurance identification, I called the hospital, and got in touch with someone in the lab. After another conversation, and reassurance, I drove to the hospital to fulfill my mission---to drop off the specimen vial. 

I arrived at the hospital and asked at the main desk if the lab was open. It was. And if I could just go there for the drop-off. No, I had to check in at the registration  desk. There, the intake person verified all my information on her computer, and then presented me with 2 sheets of paper confirming what had just been confirmed, and asked me to write in my name, address, contact information, both insurance carriers, with id numbers, addresses and telephone numbers and sign and date the second page. I filled in, I admit, only some of the nformation, knowing it would most likely never be read anyway. She asked if I would place my hand on the scanner which was on her desk. I did so, rather hastily, because, ick, all those patients before me with sickly hands. She said I needed to press more firmly on the glass, but I told her the arthritis in my hands prevented me from doing so. She didn't mind, no problem there. Finally, she handed me 4 more pages, the now-mandated Medicare out-of -pocket ESTIMATE of cost, 2 pages of New York Facility Fee Notice, and a page for Trinity secure payment information and Third Party Arbitrators.

 I asked if I could then go to the lab to deposit my vial, but, no, I was directed to the main waiting room, where a dozen or so dejected-looking  folks were waiting to be called. After a while I noticed they were being called by numbers. I didn't have a number tag, so asked at the desk, where the man informed me that if I had been in one of the 2 admitting rooms, I would be called by name. So back I went to the waiting room.

 After about thirty minutes of waiting, my name was called and I entered the room where I was told to just put the vial on the table alongside the others.  Mission accomplished!

My point is that none of this was necessary. All the authorization and information was present. The result would have been the same with a simple drop-off.

   

Impromptu Prompt

    I drove to SnS today to see if they had restocked Van's Waffles. They were still completely out so I drove to Mechanicville Price Chopper. They had none, nor any other gluten-free waffles. Alas!  On the way home the car radio plays a song I hadn't heard or thought of in years---Hang On Sloopy. 

  I instantly recall one of the first times I heard this song. Barbara and I had gone to Cape Cod on a brief vacation. The trip was pleasant enough, but memorable only because we both almost died at one point. If memory serves, we had gone all the way to the end of the road to Truro, quite a deserted area at the time. We saw a lighthouse and parked near there. The lighthouse appeared to be abandoned, or at least it was  unmanned. We decided to walk from there to the ocean, actually more of a descent than a walk. The day was hot and dry, and it seems strange now, but back then people rarely carried water or anything with them. When we went to return to the car, the climb up the hill seemed unending and absolute torture, almost straight upwards and in the extreme heat. Afterwards we both said we realized we could have passed out there and maybe have been found dead.  But we were young and healthy, and so suffered no harm to our health.

 At vacation's end, on our return trip home, in Barbara's Mustang convertible I think, the latest popular song  repeated several times on the radio. Barbara was singing along, "Hang On, Snoopy." If you listen to the lyrics, that does sound like what was sung. 

It's not me. It's them.

 Here I am, Blog, venting again. Because I live alone, and no human to commiserate with. 

  I had an appointment at one of the most highly reputed gastroenterology facilities in the area. I know it's hard to get help nowadays, so am sympathetic, but it seems it must be impossible to get good help. At my appointment last week, I was somehow checked out before I saw the doctor  and had a 2-hour wait, with apologies profusely rendered. I was told that the prescribed  procedure could not be scheduled until approved by my insurance. This was news to me because my insurance does not require preauthorization for this rather benign procedure. But okay, I said nothing. I had submitted my insurance cards; I have 2, including  very effective and hard-fought-for  secondary insurance. 

  Today I receive the script for my procedure, which includes all the billing data. My Primary Insurance is listed as Medicaid with what looks like a genuine ID number, completely unfamiliar to me. I have never had Medicaid, and I most likely never will. My Medicare ID number is completely different. The check-in woman took my insurance cards and entered the information directly from them. 

  So evidently someone who is on Medicaid is to be billed for my procedure. I hope they have a low deductible. Seriously, I suppose I'll have to call before I arrive for the procedure; I can't present false insurance coverage, right? 

  It's so pathetic when senior citizens mess things up, but at  least I have a witness to verify my situation.