I've had to deal with insurance quite a bit lately and like many of you, I find it to be quite frustrating. To correct this, I've done my research and am now in a position (seated) to explain the ins and outs of insurance terms and practices.
What is insurance?
A definition is always a good place to start. Insurance is a means by which risk is pooled among a population of people. The assumption is that if we average people's risk over a large group, our risk will be less.
Let's look at an example. (Those of you that are math averse should look away) Suppose that my risk is "x". Your risk is "x" too. Together, our total risk is x + x. In case you failed algebra, x + x = 2x. Now, to find our average risk, we divide our total risk by the number in our group. This is written as 2x/2. Those of you that didn't fail algebra can see where this is headed. Our average risk is x. Nothing has changed.
But wait! you say. "Madman, you're overweight and to call your lifestyle sedimentary would demean an entire classification of rocks!" - you also say. (That was a little mean-spirited and hurtful, I'd reply) This is where the magic happens. If my original risk was 2x and yours was only x, our average risk would be 3x/2 or 1.5x. You've just inherited some of my risk and I thank you for it. Insurance counts on people with low risk, also known as "pigeons", to join together with high risk people, also known as "Kevins" to pool their risk.
How do I get insurance?
You purchase insurance from someone known as an "agent". They prefer to refer to themselves as agents because of the negative connotations associated with the word salesman. When you hear the word agent, you instinctively think of something mysterious and perhaps a little dangerous, like a James Bond type "secret agent". No one is intimidated by a "secret salesman". Real estate agents work on this same principle. They've even gone so far as to create a whole new word "realtor" to avoid being called salesmen. I fully expect insurance agents to adopt this strategy and start calling themselves insurators.
What happens when I need to use my insurance?
The short answer is "Sucks to be you."
The long answer is, first you file a claim. Suppose that you go to a doctor or dentist or auto repair shop, it doesn't matter, the process is the same. You go in with a problem, get looked at and them get a bill. If you're lucky, they'll file a claim for you. They'll contact your insurance company and get told "No. That's not covered." It doesn't really matter what "that" is. It's not covered. You could have purchased a policy titled "Insurance against death" and your death would not be covered. If you were to actually read your policy (no one has ever done this) you would see that a small addition to an obscure sub-section that is written in Sanskrit (you do read Sanskrit don't you?) specifically states that "No payments shall be made in the event of accidental or non-accidental life stoppage." You should have bought the life stoppage policy but it wouldn't really have mattered because it would have its own obscure sub-section that stated that life stoppage is only covered in cases of extreme polyantimorphism and your case wasn't extreme enough. Plus, it was a pre-existing condition.
But surely insurance companies pay sometimes.
Yes, in extreme cases, they do. They pay what is known as "usual and customary". Bear in mind that nothing is usual or customary to an insurance company.
During the Civil War, if a soldier was wounded, it was customary to amputate a leg. It didn't matter where or how serious the wound was, a leg would be amputated. Upon seeing the reluctance of soldiers with acne to visit doctors, insurance companies seized upon customary procedures. So, if you need a leg amputated, by all means, go to the doctor.
Unfortunately, the pay scale has not changed in the past 150 years either so you'll need to find a doctor that will either take your Blue Cross/Blue Shield card or accepts payment in chickens.
Is it really that bad?
Yes.
No. I mean, is it really that bad?
Yes.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Earth, Wind and Fire!
I've made you wait long enough. I've decided to update my blog. First the good news, I survived my trip to Philadelphia. Now the bad news, I've lost my notes that I was going to use to write part 2 of my blog. Even more bad news, I don't remember why I went to Philadelphia. It was probably work related since Sheri didn't go. At least, I don't think she went. My memory isn't what I remember it being. Do I still have two kids? I hope so, I think I liked them.
There's a new tab on the page where you create your blog. I think it's new anyway. It says "Monetize". I assume that if you click on it, it will add pictures of paintings from the great French impressionist Claude Monet onto your webpage. This would seem to be a fairly obscure feature but who am I to argue with the geniuses at Google?
There's also a tab that says "Stats". From this fascinating page, I see that a grand total of 3 of my loyal followers use the Chrome web browser. To be perfectly honest, that's about 3 more than I would have guessed.
But enough of this silliness, if you can call it that. (Call it what you like, I've got bigger fish to fry.) This blog is about the weather. In Oklahoma, so the song goes, "The waving wheat, can sure smell sweet when the wind comes right behind the rain!" In a lesser known and rarely sung verse, we learn that waving wheat is also capable of giving off an odor of "sand" when the wind comes before the rain as has been the case for the last few months.
The lack of rain has greatly contributed to the wildfire situation that has plagued southwestern Oklahoma as of late. It hasn't contributed as much as the people that believe that the roadside is the appropriate receptacle for their cigarettes but it has contributed nonetheless.
A few thoughts about fire:
1. Fire is cool. Not literally of course.
2. Whenever someone talks about free speech, the "You can't yell fire in a crowded movie theater" exception gets brought up. Why is it always a movie theater? If I'm at the opera and the urge should strike, can I yell fire? How many people constitute a crowd? If I'm at the midnight showing of "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo" and there are only 2 of us, can I yell fire? What if there really is a fire in a crowded movie theater, would I be safe from prosecution if I yelled "Rapid oxidation of a material in the chemical process of combustion, releasing heat, light, and various reaction products!" Can I whisper to those around me "Don't tell anyone but there's a fire in here. Let's all pretend that we have to pee."
3. Any list should have at least 3 entries.
If any of you have recently lost your house to a fire, I apologize for making light (see what I did there?) of the situation. I'll send you all of the Monets that I receive from this year's blog.
The Earth sucks. It's a gravity thing.
There's a new tab on the page where you create your blog. I think it's new anyway. It says "Monetize". I assume that if you click on it, it will add pictures of paintings from the great French impressionist Claude Monet onto your webpage. This would seem to be a fairly obscure feature but who am I to argue with the geniuses at Google?
There's also a tab that says "Stats". From this fascinating page, I see that a grand total of 3 of my loyal followers use the Chrome web browser. To be perfectly honest, that's about 3 more than I would have guessed.
But enough of this silliness, if you can call it that. (Call it what you like, I've got bigger fish to fry.) This blog is about the weather. In Oklahoma, so the song goes, "The waving wheat, can sure smell sweet when the wind comes right behind the rain!" In a lesser known and rarely sung verse, we learn that waving wheat is also capable of giving off an odor of "sand" when the wind comes before the rain as has been the case for the last few months.
The lack of rain has greatly contributed to the wildfire situation that has plagued southwestern Oklahoma as of late. It hasn't contributed as much as the people that believe that the roadside is the appropriate receptacle for their cigarettes but it has contributed nonetheless.
A few thoughts about fire:
1. Fire is cool. Not literally of course.
2. Whenever someone talks about free speech, the "You can't yell fire in a crowded movie theater" exception gets brought up. Why is it always a movie theater? If I'm at the opera and the urge should strike, can I yell fire? How many people constitute a crowd? If I'm at the midnight showing of "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo" and there are only 2 of us, can I yell fire? What if there really is a fire in a crowded movie theater, would I be safe from prosecution if I yelled "Rapid oxidation of a material in the chemical process of combustion, releasing heat, light, and various reaction products!" Can I whisper to those around me "Don't tell anyone but there's a fire in here. Let's all pretend that we have to pee."
3. Any list should have at least 3 entries.
If any of you have recently lost your house to a fire, I apologize for making light (see what I did there?) of the situation. I'll send you all of the Monets that I receive from this year's blog.
The Earth sucks. It's a gravity thing.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Philadelphia Freedom: Part I
It was an ingenious plan. To be honest, I never saw it coming, But now, looking back in hindsight (as if there were any other way to look back) it is perfectly clear. Steve Jobs, the CEO of Apple, and Amy, my physical therapist, teamed together (as if there were any other way to team) to kill me.
Steve's piece of the puzzle was simple, create a phone that everyone wants but that also has the battery life of a wind up emergency radio. Amy's piece was much more subtle. She had to convince me to add Fleetwood Mac's "The Dance" to my Netflix queue. While both of these actions taken separately, were fairly innocuous, (and Steve's is obviously bad business) taken together, they almost led to my untimely demise.
As many of you know, I'm currently not in Oklahoma anymore. I'm sitting in a hotel room outside of Philadelphia. I flew into Philadelphia on Monday. All of my travel information was stored neatly on my iPhone. This included my hotel's address and phone number.
When I got in my rental car, a Nissan Versa, (I have come to the conclusion that Versa is named for Versatile only without the acceleration) I entered the address into my GPS. Within a few seconds, Cleo (the name I have given to the GPS lady that gives me directions) discovered the quickest route to get me from the Payless Rental Car parking lot to King of Prussia Pennsylvania. (Two quick notes. 1. You do not get a free pair of shoes when you rent from Payless although you should. 2. King of Prussia is a silly name for a city.)
At this point you are probably asking (I realize that you're probably not) "What do Amy and Fleetwood Mac have to do with this?" As I said, Amy had conveniently convinced me to add "The Dance" to my Netflix queue several months ago. Somehow, I suspect that sorcery might have been involved, Amy knew that I would be traveling to Philadelphia this month. She also knew that I would have an iPhone with the "10 minute: Extended Life Battery." Knowing that I would view "The Dance" the night before my trip, she must have concluded that I would need a Fleetwood Mac fix that could only be cured by downloading "Rumors." She also knew that I would listen to "Rumors" during my 2 hour layover in Chicago, thereby shortening my battery life from "Power nap" to "Hiccup". Some of you might insist that I bare some responsibility for this fiasco. You would fall into the exceedingly large group of people that I refer to as "Not my friends."
So, as I'm navigating Philadelphia traffic, I am constantly looking at my phone to see if Cleo has died. The only way that this situation could become more dangerous is if I decide to start texting or checking email. I probably would have, but right on schedule Cleo died. Fortunately that's not a problem because I have the address to the hotel in an email, I'll just call them and ask for directions. Oh wait.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
The Mad Man's Journey to Health or at Least Something that Sounds Like it.
Sheri and I got bicycles for our 24th anniversary which we will be celebrating in July if we live that long. According to my exhaustive web research, the traditional 24th anniversary gift is supposed to be a musical instrument. Believe it or not, a bicycle fits well in this category as my thighs sang a chorus of "Ow, Ow, Ow" for my entire journey. The journey of which I speak was walking to the garage to retrieve my precious anniversary gift. Actually riding the bike was a different story entirely. Not better, just different.
I should start with a visual. Here is a recent photo. OK, that's not actually me but the likeness is remarkable. On a positive note, I have more hair. On the negative side, I have more chins. The culmination of my long and steady decline into a sedentary lifestyle was the indignity of purchasing "Relaxed Fit" jeans at Wal-Mart last week. They call them "Relaxed Fit" because if they called them "Jeans for the Bigger Butted Man", no one would buy them. The other indignity is that I'm certain that as I was bent over to get to the bottom shelf where Wal-Mart has decided that its husky customers should have to reach to find their "Relaxed Fit" jeans, someone snapped a picture of me to place on the notorious People of Wal-Mart website.
After finally making it to the garage (don't laugh, it's harder than it sounds, the grass was wet), I found my white whale. I probably should have just harpooned it and got it over with but unfortunately, my favorite harpoon is in the shop and my backup harpoon was back in the house. I decided that I wasn't making that trek again.
Speaking of treks, ironically enough, my new bicycle is also a Trek. If you want the full visual of the whale, you can see it here. Sheri's is the second one.
(As I was writing this, I came to the realization that cats do not chew their food. You do not want to know the details that led to this revelation.)
The word "trek" itself brings back many memories. As a child, I was a bona fide Trekkie. I played Star Trek with my friends. I attended many Star Trek conventions. I still have my first edition of Starlog magazine. Sheri and I met at OU while watching Star Trek. I was immediately attracted to her even though it was obvious to me that she had never attended a convention and probably never read Starlog. Looking back, those apparent shortcomings were probably blessings.
So now there's a new trek in my life. I'm afraid that this new trek can't be enjoyed from the safety and security of my Barcalounger. This new trek is going to make me boldly go to the garage and beyond. Did I mention that the grass was wet? It's also a long way from my house to my garage. It really is. It's a good 30 smoots (that's over 50 yards for you non-geeks) and its uphill! (and the grass was wet)
I've named my bicycle "Bones" as both an homage to DeForest Kelley and a reminder as to the part of my anatomy that will be in pain when I'm done riding. Bones is called a "hybrid" bicycle. That means that it's part bicycle and part rack only without the benefit of lying down.
For those of you that are unfamiliar with the topography around my house, I live right next to a lake. One defining characteristic of most lakes is that they are generally the lowest point around. To me, this means that no matter which direction I leave from home, it's uphill. In my car, that isn't much of an issue. In my barcalounger, it isn't an issue at all. If I had succeeded in convincing Sheri that what we really needed was electric bicycles, it wouldn't have been an issue. Seated high atop Bones, it is a major issue.
Bones comes with 21 gears. They range from "I'm pedaling but the scenery isn't changing" to "Pulling a Hummer". Neither of these will be useful in getting me up Caddo county's version of Mt. McKinley. Yesterday, before I had been on Bones, I thought that with 21 gears to choose from, at least one of them and possibly even more would be useful for my arduous climb. For those of you that don't know, and I was certainly in this group, a 21 speed bike has 21 gear combinations. The dirty little secret that they don't tell you (until after you've made your purchase) is that of these 21 combinations; 5 shouldn't be used and 8 are THE SAME! Really Shimano? Your business model is to provide 21 of something when only 8 are useful? I'm relieved that the engineers at Ford didn't take that approach when designing the gearbox of my Focus.
Through an amazing feat of endurance that could best be described as a cross between "hyperventilation" and "crying", I made it to the top of Mount Caddo. Unfortunately, I was only about 400 smoots (you can do the math) from my driveway and my lungs were kaput. I blame the altitude.
I did manage to finish the rest of my 7 mile trek. Sheri beat me by a mere 8 miles but in my defense, I'm a wuss.
I should start with a visual. Here is a recent photo. OK, that's not actually me but the likeness is remarkable. On a positive note, I have more hair. On the negative side, I have more chins. The culmination of my long and steady decline into a sedentary lifestyle was the indignity of purchasing "Relaxed Fit" jeans at Wal-Mart last week. They call them "Relaxed Fit" because if they called them "Jeans for the Bigger Butted Man", no one would buy them. The other indignity is that I'm certain that as I was bent over to get to the bottom shelf where Wal-Mart has decided that its husky customers should have to reach to find their "Relaxed Fit" jeans, someone snapped a picture of me to place on the notorious People of Wal-Mart website.
After finally making it to the garage (don't laugh, it's harder than it sounds, the grass was wet), I found my white whale. I probably should have just harpooned it and got it over with but unfortunately, my favorite harpoon is in the shop and my backup harpoon was back in the house. I decided that I wasn't making that trek again.
Speaking of treks, ironically enough, my new bicycle is also a Trek. If you want the full visual of the whale, you can see it here. Sheri's is the second one.
(As I was writing this, I came to the realization that cats do not chew their food. You do not want to know the details that led to this revelation.)
The word "trek" itself brings back many memories. As a child, I was a bona fide Trekkie. I played Star Trek with my friends. I attended many Star Trek conventions. I still have my first edition of Starlog magazine. Sheri and I met at OU while watching Star Trek. I was immediately attracted to her even though it was obvious to me that she had never attended a convention and probably never read Starlog. Looking back, those apparent shortcomings were probably blessings.
So now there's a new trek in my life. I'm afraid that this new trek can't be enjoyed from the safety and security of my Barcalounger. This new trek is going to make me boldly go to the garage and beyond. Did I mention that the grass was wet? It's also a long way from my house to my garage. It really is. It's a good 30 smoots (that's over 50 yards for you non-geeks) and its uphill! (and the grass was wet)
I've named my bicycle "Bones" as both an homage to DeForest Kelley and a reminder as to the part of my anatomy that will be in pain when I'm done riding. Bones is called a "hybrid" bicycle. That means that it's part bicycle and part rack only without the benefit of lying down.
For those of you that are unfamiliar with the topography around my house, I live right next to a lake. One defining characteristic of most lakes is that they are generally the lowest point around. To me, this means that no matter which direction I leave from home, it's uphill. In my car, that isn't much of an issue. In my barcalounger, it isn't an issue at all. If I had succeeded in convincing Sheri that what we really needed was electric bicycles, it wouldn't have been an issue. Seated high atop Bones, it is a major issue.
Bones comes with 21 gears. They range from "I'm pedaling but the scenery isn't changing" to "Pulling a Hummer". Neither of these will be useful in getting me up Caddo county's version of Mt. McKinley. Yesterday, before I had been on Bones, I thought that with 21 gears to choose from, at least one of them and possibly even more would be useful for my arduous climb. For those of you that don't know, and I was certainly in this group, a 21 speed bike has 21 gear combinations. The dirty little secret that they don't tell you (until after you've made your purchase) is that of these 21 combinations; 5 shouldn't be used and 8 are THE SAME! Really Shimano? Your business model is to provide 21 of something when only 8 are useful? I'm relieved that the engineers at Ford didn't take that approach when designing the gearbox of my Focus.
Through an amazing feat of endurance that could best be described as a cross between "hyperventilation" and "crying", I made it to the top of Mount Caddo. Unfortunately, I was only about 400 smoots (you can do the math) from my driveway and my lungs were kaput. I blame the altitude.
I did manage to finish the rest of my 7 mile trek. Sheri beat me by a mere 8 miles but in my defense, I'm a wuss.
Friday, February 20, 2009
The Madman disproves evolution. Take that Darwin!
In the shower this morning, I was thinking about evolution. I don't know why. As I was pondering the nature of life and the universe, it occured to me that the theories of natural selection and survival of the fittest simply cannot be true. What led me to this inescapable conclusion? Backhair.
I have a hairy back. Not Robin Williams hairy but hairy enough for government work. (The government has all sorts of jobs.) If natural selection were a valid representation of the world around us, any sort of selection, natural or otherwise, would have kicked my particular kind of back out of the gene pool long ago.
I'm not proud of it but many years ago when I was in high school and college, I used to look at Playboy magazine. Consequently, I became intimately familar with the turn-ons and turn-offs of "bubble headed bleached blondes" (thanks Don Henley). Not once did I read a list of turn-ons that mentioned backhair. They all said that they wanted a guy with a nice smile and a sense of humor, both of which I've been told I possess in abundance. Inexplicably, I could count the number of real dates I had in high school without taking my mittens off. It must have been due to the backhair.
When I shared my theory with my wife, she said, "You know that's not right don't you?" I remain unconvinced. She also mentioned that as long as I'm going to talk about backhair, I might as well mention nosehair. I'm not sure what she's getting at but I think I have a pretty good idea.
That also got me to wondering about other qualities that I posess that would help disprove the "Theory" of evolution. (Remember kids, you can't spell "theory" without "the". You could probably use an "or" too.) I suspect that I have many other features which would help prove my theory. What self-respecting cave woman would choose a mate that's knock-kneed? Or has a spare tire? Or needed glasses? Or was about as useful on a hunt as a bag of rats?
The only logical explanation (to me anyway) is that Darwin was absolutely nuts. Look at the facts:
I have a hairy back. Not Robin Williams hairy but hairy enough for government work. (The government has all sorts of jobs.) If natural selection were a valid representation of the world around us, any sort of selection, natural or otherwise, would have kicked my particular kind of back out of the gene pool long ago.
I'm not proud of it but many years ago when I was in high school and college, I used to look at Playboy magazine. Consequently, I became intimately familar with the turn-ons and turn-offs of "bubble headed bleached blondes" (thanks Don Henley). Not once did I read a list of turn-ons that mentioned backhair. They all said that they wanted a guy with a nice smile and a sense of humor, both of which I've been told I possess in abundance. Inexplicably, I could count the number of real dates I had in high school without taking my mittens off. It must have been due to the backhair.
When I shared my theory with my wife, she said, "You know that's not right don't you?" I remain unconvinced. She also mentioned that as long as I'm going to talk about backhair, I might as well mention nosehair. I'm not sure what she's getting at but I think I have a pretty good idea.
That also got me to wondering about other qualities that I posess that would help disprove the "Theory" of evolution. (Remember kids, you can't spell "theory" without "the". You could probably use an "or" too.) I suspect that I have many other features which would help prove my theory. What self-respecting cave woman would choose a mate that's knock-kneed? Or has a spare tire? Or needed glasses? Or was about as useful on a hunt as a bag of rats?
The only logical explanation (to me anyway) is that Darwin was absolutely nuts. Look at the facts:
- He comes up with a crazy theory of evolution.
- He travels on a ship named after a hyperactive dog. Seriously, who names their boat after a beagle? I think I'm going to name my next boat the HMS Labradoodle.
- There is no #3.
- If there's no #3, then this one is really pointless.
I can't wait to see my name in Kansas high school textbooks everywhere. Well, not everywhere but at least in Kansas. You know what I mean.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Decisions. Decisions.
Making decisions is getting harder by the minute. The number of choices for any given decision seems to be growing geometrically. If you don't speak math, geometrically means " a metric buttload". The most obvious manifestation of this is television channels. Everyone that grew up in the 60's had exactly 4 channels to watch if you included PBS. Now, through the magic of satellite TV, I have 4 channels devoted specifically to Ethiopian midget porn.
My mother-in-law bought us a really cool Christmas present. It's an electric mattress pad. It's great on a cold night to get into a nice warm bed. The problem with it is the number of settings that it has. If the mattress pad people had asked me, I would have told them that Low, Medium and High would have been sufficient. They did not ask me. Apparently, whoever they asked thought that no mattress warmer would be complete without TWENTY different settings. I simply cannot handle that many choices. I lie awake at night with my pad set on 17 wondering if I might not be more comfortable if I turned it up to 18. If I turn it down to 16, will I get hypothermia? These are not decisions that you can take lightly.
I got my first bicycle when I was in 1st grade. It had one gear. It got stolen. I had another bike in 6th grade that also only had one gear. It got stolen too. By the time I was in high school, I finally had a 10 speed. Surprise! It got stolen too. At this very moment, there are three bicycles sitting in my garage that have a combined total of 57 gears. If I could pay someone to steal them from me, I would. Not uncoincidentally, I have a car in the same category.
I golf. Badly. Seriously. I'm a bad golfer. I love it but I stink at it. The rules of golf state that you can carry no more than 14 clubs in your bag. Naturally, I carry 14. Sometimes 15. I actually use 3. The perverse thing about it is that if I had more sleeves in my bag, I'd buy more clubs to not use.
Gotta go. Monk is on. I think this is the one where you know who murdered the guy but you don't know how Monk is going to prove that the bad guy actually did it. Please don't spoil the ending for me.
My mother-in-law bought us a really cool Christmas present. It's an electric mattress pad. It's great on a cold night to get into a nice warm bed. The problem with it is the number of settings that it has. If the mattress pad people had asked me, I would have told them that Low, Medium and High would have been sufficient. They did not ask me. Apparently, whoever they asked thought that no mattress warmer would be complete without TWENTY different settings. I simply cannot handle that many choices. I lie awake at night with my pad set on 17 wondering if I might not be more comfortable if I turned it up to 18. If I turn it down to 16, will I get hypothermia? These are not decisions that you can take lightly.
I got my first bicycle when I was in 1st grade. It had one gear. It got stolen. I had another bike in 6th grade that also only had one gear. It got stolen too. By the time I was in high school, I finally had a 10 speed. Surprise! It got stolen too. At this very moment, there are three bicycles sitting in my garage that have a combined total of 57 gears. If I could pay someone to steal them from me, I would. Not uncoincidentally, I have a car in the same category.
I golf. Badly. Seriously. I'm a bad golfer. I love it but I stink at it. The rules of golf state that you can carry no more than 14 clubs in your bag. Naturally, I carry 14. Sometimes 15. I actually use 3. The perverse thing about it is that if I had more sleeves in my bag, I'd buy more clubs to not use.
Gotta go. Monk is on. I think this is the one where you know who murdered the guy but you don't know how Monk is going to prove that the bad guy actually did it. Please don't spoil the ending for me.
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