Health Insurance Roulette

Tags

life, personal, relationships

One of the more frustrating challenges in the past few years, especially since I changed employers March 2014, has been affordable health insurance.  When I was fired, I lost the BCBS family silver PPO that my employer subsidized.  It had been close to 25 years since I had to worry about health insurance for myself or for my family, the cost of my insurance and insurance for my family subsidized by my employer.  The pay I received from that job was bad to marginal but the health insurance benefit was above average and good, the $28 deduct from my weekly paycheck worth every penny.  Suddenly, I was faced with paying for COBRA insurance, then working through the then new federal Healthcare Marketplace.  I was offered a job two days after I was fired, but my new employer was small — a three person office with me being the only official full time domestic employee of a company based in eastern Europe.  There would be no company health insurance benefit, although the job offer included a monthly allowance for my family’s health insurance.  Even then, I would be required to pay roughly 75% of the insurance cost.

One note — I am very proud to be able to say that was only unemployed for two days.  The word of my demise spread quickly, as nasty stories have a tendency to do, and someone with my reputation and experience is rare in the industry I serve.  There was a lot of interest to hire me and the company who hired me was very happy to get someone with my experience.  Unfortunately, I needed a month to recover from the stress I had been through in the months/years leading up to the incident that led to my firing.  So much had been heaped on me for a long time, combined with financial and family/marital stress that added to the stress at work, that I had reached a breaking point.  While my employer had been extremely cruel to me, I hadn’t helped myself with my final reaction, which had been to tell my boss to fire truck off — he had been looking for a reason to fire me and was intentionally trying to push me over the edge.  After a long Wednesday that had been preceded by several long days and months of constant ruthless badgering by my boss, I handed the reason to him on a silver platter.  I can only say that I have had to learn some hard lessons about dealing with anger properly.  It’s not that I was an angry, raging lunatic, but I tried to avoid losing my temper so much that it wasn’t healthy in a lot of ways.  It hurt me physically and there were times where the frustration became too much for me to handle.  That time of my life taught me a lot of lessons, the stress actually pushing my body past its limits.  It was a good thing that I had good health insurance at the time!

For the record, no matter what my ex says, curse words are not a normal part of my daily vocabulary.  I know how many times she heard me curse in the 25 years we were married — so few that I can count the number of times on one hand.  Saying fire truck to my boss means that I was stressed out of my mind.  The day before the firing, the stress had been so bad that I had to go out to my car so that coworkers would not have to watch me lose it.  I sat in my car weeping uncontrollably for a good half hour.

I negotiated the dark waters of that first open enrollment fairly well, barely making the deadline for the 2014 open enrollment.  My son was diagnosed with borderline ADHD when he was 10 years old, prescribed the expensive medicines that go along with it.  I didn’t agree with the diagnosis then, don’t agree now, definitely question the necessity of the medications.  My boy has been exposed to an amphetamine that he will never be able to quit taking.  Those medications and the psychiatric care that goes with them make it a challenge to get affordable health insurance for him.  Most plans do not include those medications or psychiatric care.  If they do, they are very expensive.  That meant that the federal subsidy was necessary to keep the monthly insurance payment below $1000 per month.

The PPO for 2014 was discontinued at the end of 2014.  The plan that replaced it cost three times as much, making it impossible to afford even with the federal subsidy.  Through the Marketplace, I found another lower tier PPO that covered the medications required and was roughly the same cost.  It was supposed to also include the pediatrician and doctors we used.  The monthly federal subsidy was a little higher.  After signing up, we found out that our doctors had dropped out of the PPO’s network.  We were screwed for 2015.  So, when that PPO was also discontinued at the end of 2015 and replaced once again by a far more expensive PPO, I changed to an HMO for 2016 that was affordable.

2016 was the year the divorce started, although we didn’t separate until April 2017.  Late 2016, I took an advance from my retirement fund to pay off outstanding credit card debt (another stress for years, as well as a symptom of a terrible marriage).  When 2016 taxes were filed and my wife and I had separated, I received a letter from the IRS that advised that our 2016 income had exceeded the maximum combined income to receive the federal health insurance subsidy — which meant that I had less than two weeks to come up with the nearly $7000 to pay back the total 2016 insurance subsidy.  Since each of us had changed addresses, the letter got to me after the due date to pay the $7000, resulting in a hefty penalty for late payment.

This story is getting long.  Let’s just say that I was fortunate to have the money from my portion of the sale of our house.  Otherwise, it would have been much more difficult to deal with.  As it was, it depleted my savings to near nothing, making the first year of divorce a quite bit more uphill financially.  I am thankful that I planned my post divorce budget well, something I think my ex hates.  She suspects I have unlimited finances, I think, judging from the way she asks for money.  Truthfully, if I don’t stick to the budget I have set, I would be hurting.  God help me if there is an emergency (like my car is strongly hinting at now).

Things like unexpected changes to health insurance premiums can really mess with that budget.  This month, I start paying on the Parent Plus loan that I had to take out during my daughter’s junior and senior years of college.  I planned on that, but it means my budget is even more tight.  To avoid the excessive health insurance premiums and possible federal health insurance subsidy issue, this year I avoided the federal Marketplace altogether.  Instead of health insurance, I enrolled in a federally recognized health share for myself.  I found an inexpensive health insurance plan for my son — and found out that I either misunderstood what the salespeople told me or I was lied to.  His plan is a supplementary plan, not intended to be the health insurance plan.  It also doesn’t cover his prescriptions or psychiatric care, something I was careful about when shopping for his insurance, so I know I was lied to in that case.  His insurance is definitely not the plan I was told it would be.  It sounded too good to be true and it was too good to be true, as is usually the case.

So, my son needs to find insurance that meets his needs.  I have been asking him to come over to my place so we can look into a new plan for him, cancel the plan he has now.  I can’t cancel his insurance because legally I am not allowed.  I also want to see if he qualifies for a federal subsidy on his own, probably the way we can afford the insurance he needs.  I have to pay for his insurance, 100% of it, per the divorce agreement.

He is avoiding me.  Until yesterday, he ignored my phone calls and text messages.  He has done that for weeks.  I would have tried to get his mother involved, but wanted to give Nate a shot first, let him learn how to do it on his own.  I have communicated the reason why it needs to be done this way.  The open enrollment period ends this Saturday.  It has to be started a few days before or else there will be trouble.

They both answered me, partially, yesterday.  When I say partially, both said they received my messages.  So I encouraged her (and said it has to be done) to work with him to get enrollment started in the next two days.  I said I have to approve any plan enrollment before they enroll, as I have to get it approved for my employer to pay their portion.

Crickets.

The challenge isn’t just dealing with the health insurance itself.  This would be difficult if the divorce had never happened.  Dealing with it with all the angst of the divorce is making it a real challenge.  Trying to get both my son and my wife to work on getting the health insurance questions resolved requires patience… and prayer.

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Crisco is not the Answer

Tags

life, middle age, relationships, technology

This time of year is always filled with transitions, changes required due to cold weather coming on and the snow/moisture that comes with it, as well as the decreased amount of daylight available.  As soon as I come home, I am greeted by the mass of Christmas decorations that adorn my condominium unit, a brightly lit and Cardinal infested tree in front of my living room windows reminding me that the season has begun.  When I wake in the morning, I am reminded quickly that my exercise and diet need to be adjusted to a disciplined routine, my waist straining to overtake my jeans as I pull them on.

Warning — Using Crisco to facilitate pulling on tight pants is not recommended.  People question the stains and lard can cause a painful rash.  Shoehorns are also not recommended as they can get stuck.. or lost depending on the extent of your “transition”.

Last night I visited a friend for a night of watching football, something that is becoming a bit of a weekly thing.  When I arrived, he was showing another friend the bicycle training set up in his kitchen.

Yes, we’re single men.  Single men are able to keep bicycles inside the house without fear of repercussion or bicycle destruction at the hands of a distressed female.

John has a nice set up, his Cervelo connected to a Wahoo Kickr resistance trainer.  That trainer transmits via Bluetooth to a PC which has a Zwift subscription.  Zwift is a training app that controls the resistance as you “train” online with (or against) friends, a virtual group ride through various simulated terrain.  My friend’s eyes glistened as he described a recent training ride where he and another friend dropped the lead group, then carefully waited for the right moment to sprint to the finish line.  John raised an arm in triumph as he recalled edging his “training partner” at the line.

Let me pause as I wipe the drool off of my keyboard.  I WANT THAT TRAINING SET UP!  Can you say ho ho ho?

This time of year can be filled with dreams of training sugar plums.  Last Friday morning, my friend Mike gleefully showed me the app he uses for his diet and training.  Mike is a body builder, so he watches his calorie intake closely.  He has some cred, enough that I respect what he is telling me.  Mike uses an app called My Fitness Pal, something I think I am going to try to help me make it through the Winter transition.  The app is free, with a premium option, so it can’t hurt to try.  It features a dietary log with tons of restaurant food and recipes loaded in to aid in tracking calories.  Favorite recipes can be saved, a useful tool when setting up a menu and grocery list.

We shall see.  My best riding seasons have been preceded with a disciplined off season that includes some kind of electronic resistance training (usually Computrainer) and diet.

Happy Transition-mas!!!

 

Bad Afternoons and Shared Tears

Tags

life

Dad sent my brothers and I an email last Friday afternoon, the subject line read Bad Afternoon.  Almost two months to the day after mom passed — the period of relief has begun to lessen, all the business and busy work that followed the memorial has been accomplished.  Their house is suddenly bigger and more quiet than he ever imagined it would be without her.  No matter how many people invite him to dinner or to join him for a show, it’s not enough to fill the space she occupied for 58 years.  Loneliness has set in, my father has realized what his wife and companion meant to him for so long.  With all that room in the house that they built together, there is now room for grief.  It’s time for that to happen.

Dad sold both of their vehicles a few weeks ago, a Toyota Tacoma truck and a Kia Sorento SUV, bought himself a Nissan Frontier truck with all the bells and whistles.. his “Cruck” as he calls it.  He is like a kid with that new vehicle, fretting over the little tweaks and details to make it right for him.  The guy shelled out $800 for new tires over the weekend, just to make the ride a bit more quiet.  Then he came home, realized he couldn’t tell mom about it, couldn’t beam and brag to her.  She was happy when he was happy.

Friday afternoon can be relaxed for me, the work week winding down.  So, after I read Dad’s email, I decided to give him a call.  My father was reaching out to his boys and I am glad he does.  There is a strong bond in my family, so evident during the past few months as our mother became more ill.  We know each other like family, share our good and bad, rejoice and fret together.  Not once ever has there been a case where there is jealousy or judgement, a testament to the cement that has brought us together — our parents.

Dad and I celebrated that together during that phone call, with joyful tears mixed with our grief.  I told Dad how grateful I am that I can look at him and my brothers, see what it has meant to each of us to have a mother who cared to teach her boys to be men.  It took me about five minutes to get that sentence out.  It felt good to say that while knowing what I said is completely true.  What we are seeing is complete support, transparency that you might not expect from four men, all possible because of the acceptance we experience through each other.  We had a mother who pulled no punches, encouraged us to talk, listened and acted when she needed to.  It shows.  She also pulled no punches when it came to her faith in God, expected the same from all of us (including Dad, who came to a saving faith through her), and as a result there are four men in this world whose faith is rock solid.

Dad and I can relate to each other right now, that common bond mentioned during that phone call.  We have both experienced and are experiencing the challenge of being alone.  I faced years where more and more I was alone, or felt that way, as my marriage began to disintegrate.  Reality that eventually I would be alone was something I feared, the eventuality and finality I avoided with dread.  Dad saw a while ago that mom’s health was failing, has always known that when that happened that she might give up.  I think he feared being without her in the same way I feared being alone.  The pain that led up to the reality is nothing compared to what the experience is like.  The day I moved out of my house and was alone was mixed with relief as well as incredible pain.  In the months that followed, I had to accept the pain as necessary to purging the poison that had built up.  Pain precedes healing.  That is my experience.

Dad is in the midst of the pain that heals.  He felt it coming, welcomed it in his own way, but I don’t think he was prepared for the intensity of the silence.  Comfort comes from friends, from memories, from the love of 58 years that will always be with him.

Steve, I guess I never fully realized what we had together.  Our relationship was never perfect, we fought at times, didn’t always see eye to eye, but she always supported me and showed me an intense loyalty.  I did not think about what a friend she was to me until she was gone.  We did everything together.  Your mom was always with me.  Now I know how important that was to me.  I am a blessed man.  God gave me the best woman for me.

I was a little astonished to hear that from him.  What he said about their relationship has always been obvious to me.  Yes, I remember the period when they fought intensely, how they came together and supported each other even during that period.  I can see how the way they quarreled strengthened their relationship instead of tearing it down.  Their love was clear to my brothers and I, had to be just as clear to each other.  My dad could make a family decision as could my mother without any question of doubt from either of them, probably because they made their decisions together.  When it came to discipline, rarely was it a singular act from my parents, never was discipline questioned by my mother or my father.  They were a team.

I told my dad something during that phone call that I have always wanted to tell him —

Dad, what you had with mom is what I wanted with my wife.  You both set the bar very high.  I wish I would have had what you had.  The expectations I had for my marriage came from watching two people love and support and need each other like my parents.  If we had come close, I would have been a very happy man.  I am jealous of how happy my mother made you.

Dad is becoming what mom was to my brothers and I.  Mom loved sending emails and texts.  While dad has always communicated with us, we are getting a barrage of messages from him every day.  I laugh.  I know my brothers are too.  It’s fun to see.

Like me, Dad is recovering with the help of friends, family, his church, as well as a healthy dose of God.  We are a lot alike, two gregarious extroverts who love talking to people.  I draw my energy from the people I know and meet, a personality trait I know I share with him.  My kids have said the same.  I like that.  I like that I am my father’s son.

 

The Ho Comes Early

Tags

fun, life, relationships

My ‘lady friend’ (term courtesy of my neighbor) is Clark Griswold’s twin sister, interior design version.  True story.  The pictures above were taken inside my condo unit last night.  The pictures don’t do the decorating justice — it’s beautiful and all done, for the most part, by my lovely and talented ‘lady friend’.  The joy on her face as she toiled and fretted over each detail was cute, something I laughed at as I told her so.  That she would enjoy the decorating was never a question in my mind.  Every weekend since September, she has had a little bag of goodies for me, Christmas decorations scoured carefully by her practiced eyes from the racks at local Goodwill stores.  It’s a talent, a gift, her ability to find a gift in the midst of the mess of stuff at that store truly amazing to me.  D has been dreaming of how those lovingly selected trinkets would fit together inside (and outside) of my condo unit for months.  When she suggested early last week that our dates this weekend would consist of dinner and decorating at my place, I had no choice but to say yes.

While I am not really ready for Christmas to start happening yet, watching her in her element was pure entertainment.  Ideas kept flooding over her as she worked, changes and tweaks implemented until the detail was just right to her.  D would stand back, palms extended outward with a pleased smile on her face, admiring her handiwork.  It was cute to watch.  Saturday night, we worked on the tree together after dinner (stuffed shells with salad, chocolate cake and Malbec for dessert).  I was merely a participant as my personal designer woman directed the festivity.

It’s a good thing that I rarely use that dining room table.  We will need to invite friends over for dinner, so the festive arrangements can be shared.  My kitchen table (not pictured) also is decorated, although I had to rein her in a little bit there — that table is my place to hang out, as well as the place where some of my cooking prep is done.  Pretty is not practical, for the most part.  Decorating also spilled out into the hallway outside my front door, where an old wooden rocking horse awaits with a red bow around its neck, as well as an old restored wood sled.  The sled was used by my brothers and I, lovingly restored by my dad.  Some time this week, a wreath will be added to the sled.  There also is a welcome sign hung on my front door, a snowman couple wishing everyone a joyful season.

Now I can sit back and enjoy my decorated condo… until we help D’s mom decorate next weekend!

(I should probably apologize for the title of today’s blog — I couldn’t resist and it has no bearing on my ‘lady friend’… unless you talk to my downstairs neighbor.  In case anyone is wondering, heels were carefully removed at my front door.)

Tap Tap Tap

Tags

life, neighbors, relationships

Getting mail is always so much fun, right?  That’s usually the case, unless the envelope has an IRS return address or is a bill.  When I was growing up, back in the stone age when email was a pipe dream conceived in a dime store science fiction novel, my brothers and I fought to be the privileged one to be asked to retrieve the mail from the mailbox each day.  There might be a treasure waiting, a postcard from a cousin visiting the Badlands or a letter or a prize from a cereal box contest win.. or a secret decoder wheel from Ovaltine!  The Ovaltine thing never happened.. I am not THAT old.

I thought about those days gone by this morning as I contemplated a piece of mail received in last night’s mail, an envelope with no return address, my name and address handwritten on the front, multiple stamps carefully stuck in a line on the front right corner.  Was it a secret admirer ready to declare her desire from afar?  My check from a Nigerian prince who couldn’t help but share his immense wealth with me?  An offer to star in George Clooney’s life story (it could happen)?  Alas, the post office stamp revealed that the envelope had been mailed from the post office down the street from my condo.  It had not been mailed from a far away admirer, a Nigerian prince, or George Clooney.

As it turned out, the mystery envelope had originated from a source that I should have been able to guess, a person so close to me that they could have made the contents into a paper airplane and air mailed it to me — Terese, my downstairs darling, the nitpicker of my heart.  It’s been a while since she has formally declared her admiration, although she has bellowed a few exclamations of her deep desire in my direction lately.

It’s possible she is jealous of my “lady friend”.  I am offended, however, or maybe I should be honored that she is hiding her passion, carefully wording this letter to conceal her true feelings.  My heart is warmed knowing that she thinks of me as three legged (think about that one for a second).  Terese had help writing this letter, judging from the polite language.  That is not normally her style.  Control is her style and it’s still the reason for this letter.  A few seconds of tap tap tap once or twice a month is not a reason to mail a letter of complaint to your neighbor.

Wait, how does she know it was my lady friend?  Uh oh.  Now I know why it seems like my grandpa’s eyes have been following me.  Maybe I should hang that picture somewhere else.  A friend of mine suggested that I should dress in stilettos and drag, go downstairs to apologize.  That would keep her guessing!  It might also give her another reason to complain.  Our condo association rules don’t contain a clause that forbids cross dressing, at least I don’t think so.

She apparently travelled into the future to write this letter.  The DeLorean in her driveway should have been a tip off.  As my ever alert friend Mummalunga, observed, there just might be a tardis concealed under that tarp my neighbor has mounted under my balcony.

Shoes will be removed promptly every Saturday night (date night) upon entering my condo.  They usually are, but truthfully I have not reminded her as of late to remove her shoes, cognizant of the noise they are making but not really caring if my oversensitive neighbor is bothered.  Had she been polite to me from the beginning of my residency in my stately manor, I might be more inclined to be more polite to her.  That is not the best policy, I know, so I will try to comply within reason — until the next attempt to control comes from below.

It’s sad, really.  I would prefer a good relationship with my neighbors, of which I do have with my other neighbors, where all she would need to do is let me know that every once in a while something is bothering her.  Attempts to talk with her have always turned to hostility, so I know that can’t happen.  Ironically, two weekends ago, my other upstairs neighbor placed a nice bottle of wine in front of the doorstep of their three neighbors, with a note apologizing for the noise they have made while renovating their unit.  That was very cool.

Terese is obviously tip toeing, maybe even trying to start a paper trail.  She has curtailed her screeches.  She mailed this letter instead of taping it to my door.  Perhaps this letter was suggested by a lawyer, condo property management, or by the condo association board.  Either way, she has pushed her luck and knows it.  Constant complaining has weakened the strength of her complaints.

 

Raising a Ringer

Tags

lessons learned, life, middle age, sports

During the course of the last 15 years or so, I had the privilege of coaching my children as they played a number of sports.  My son was one of those boys who wanted to try every sport — constantly wanting me to play catch with him, kick a soccer ball around, shoot hoops in the driveway, compete at ping pong, and go to the tennis courts for a few rounds.  Never did he allow me to take it easy on him, especially when it was tennis.  Rarely did he care that I was tired or fried.  He wanted to play.  Not wanting to be the father from Harry Chapin’s Cat’s In The Cradle, I rarely turned him down.  He always had me to be his partner in whatever activity he wanted to practice.

Having a strong boy who wanted me to compete benefited us both.  He was better because he has a father who is a decent athlete, able to show him a few things and compete well enough to cause him to improve his skills.  Constant activity kept me sharp, strengthened my throwing arm (just ask any first baseman who has taken a throw from me at third base) and improved my athletic ability even in my late fifties.  That said, I am beginning to wear down a bit, especially as my midsection grows.  During the last 15 years, I spent a good portion of my time and money supporting my children in their endeavors.  If I wasn’t coaching them, I was taking them to an event or watching them.

I wouldn’t trade those days for anything in the world.

Despite some rocky times with my son as he grew up, especially during the years when my marriage to his mother began to fail, all the time we spent together developed a bond.  Do I wish it was a little stronger?  Yes.  To be honest, the rocky times stunted that bond a little.  But as time goes on, the investment is showing.  Respect is returning, honor beginning to become a part of our relationship.  He is giving back to me, slowly, but he is doing it.

A few weeks ago, my condo association announced that they would be hosting a doubles tennis tournament.  I mentioned it to my son, hoping that he would show some interest in playing as my partner.  Nate was a talented tennis player, a standout in singles on the high school JV tennis team and in doubles on the high school varsity tennis team.  If he played as my partner, he likely would be my ‘ringer’.  I am a decent tennis player, won an intramural singles tournament in college, but it has been a few years.  In reality, it didn’t matter if we won.  I just wanted to see how would play together, wanted to spend some time with him.  Reluctantly, he agreed to play.  He was pretty sure that the competition would be an older crowd, plus he felt a little rusty since it had been over a year since he has competed at any level.

He showed.  Our first two matches, he held back, didn’t hit many serves hard, just took it easy.  We won those matches easily.  It helps that Nate is 6’4″ tall and very strong.  With him at the net, we had a wall that made our opponents lob the ball, setting me up to place the ball down either line.  In the championship match, Nate crushed several serves, some real aces that evoked several WOWs from the people watching.  We won the tournament.

It was nice to have some time with my son, time I really haven’t had in the last year since the separation and divorce.  We had a great time.  Now we get to share our prize — a gift certificate to a local restaurant!  And yes, the kid is just a tad taller than I am now.  I swear he grew 2-3 inches in the last year.

Water Torture

Tags

life, neighbors

I am a bad, bad, bad man.  So bad.  Oh yes, I’m bad, I know it.

I am a dripper.  It’s not a personal problem, even if it sounds like it, although it is the current personal problem of choice for she-who-is-not-to-be-named.  Ah, heck, I will say the name, even if I do not have a lightning bolt on my forehead.

TERESE.  TERRIBLE T.

When Terese complains, it means she is home and awake.  Water seems to be her greatest enemy.  I would like to tell her that she need not worry, the Wizard of Oz is only fictional.  She will not melt when water comes in contact with her skin.

Maybe I should try tossing a bucket of water on her.

Maybe THAT is why she has a plastic tarp mounted underneath the floor of my balcony.  She is afraid of melting!

A flying monkey landed on my balcony rail last night.  I swear I am not making that up.  It was either a flying monkey or a large dragon fly.

Terese decided to occupy her condo unit either Thursday or Friday.  I can tell when she is about to be home.  Her husband’s gray truck shows up in the guest parking area.  Usually, he comes home a day ahead of time, likely to get her cauldron ready for when she returns.  She has been gone for a few weeks.  How do I know that?  It has been a few weeks since she last complained and whined.  Her complaint of choice right now is water that drips from my balcony to her plastic tarp.  We are not talking about something constant, we are talking about a few drops twice this summer.  I had to leave town early Friday morning and didn’t get back until yesterday, was only home a little bit yesterday.  I heard her cackling out on her patio before I left Friday morning.

This morning, I watered my flowers before I left for work.  It’s part of my daily routine.  There are trays and rubber mats underneath each flower box, trays underneath each pot.  That is required per condo rules.  It makes sense and is a polite thing to do.  Nasty as my downstairs neighbor is, I am not going to pour water on her patio.  When I water my flowers, I have a large watering can that I use.  If I am in a rush, I might slop some water that could drip a few drops through the cracks between the decking.  That happened this morning.  I slopped and seconds later I heard the drip drip drip of water hitting her plastic tarp.  Three drips.

You might think that I had just dumped several buckets of turds over the side of my balcony.  Terese shouted several words and phrases in a loud shriek and in what I assume was Polish, followed by several choruses of SON OF BEETCH.  She has sung that chorus to me several times over the course of the last year.  Undaunted, I finished watering, went back inside to refill the watering can.  I said nothing, did nothing.  Oh, I MIGHT have held the watering can over the railing and let it rain on the grass below, but I MOSTLY did nothing.

When I got a chance to catch my breath at work, I let property management know that my neighbor would likely be filing another formal complaint.  I let them know my email was only for the record, told them I was following condo guidelines for drip trays on balconies, sent the pictures used in this blog.  They did respond, thanked me for providing the pictures so they had ammunition (yes, they used that word) that proves I am following the rules.  The woman who responded also complimented me about my flowers.  🙂

Geez, it is going to be hard to resist buying a super soaker…..

And Then There Was One

Tags

lessons learned, life, personal

Darks clouds hung low, not ominous at all, no thunderheads but threatening nonetheless.  I ducked my head slightly on the way from my office to my car in an attempt to shield my glasses from the light rain.  Despite the clouds, I felt buoyed, an odd feeling considering the reason I was in my car — I was on my way to pick up my daughter and take her to the airport for her trip to Amsterdam, then after a two day layover on to Istanbul and finally Ankara.  She was about to embark on a journey that has been a dream of hers since she was a girl, a new life teaching overseas.  It’s a bold and exciting adventure, something that makes me very proud of her, any thoughts of missing her overshadowed by the joy of anticipation.  The big day was here!

The drive from my office to pick up Alyssa at her mother’s apartment slowed as the light rain turned heavy.  An overly cautious motorist delayed my arrival by at least five minutes as she poked along at a speed 15 mph under the limit, on a section of road that curved in a way that made it impossible to pass.  I wasn’t too worried.  The flight out of O’Hare was scheduled for 6 PM.  We had allowed three hours.  There was plenty of time.

We loaded her five suitcases into my car in the midst of a downpour, all her bags wedged into the small “trunk” area and back seat of my VW Tiguan.  Alyssa had carefully packed three large suitcases and a big wheeled duffle bag to the maximum weight limit, her life’s belongings relegated to those four bags.  Another small suitcase was also stuffed, yet small enough to qualify as a carry on according to the airline guidelines.  I watched as Alyssa embraced her sobbing mother in a long hug, then jumped into the passenger seat next to me, tears welling in her eyes as we drove away.

The tollway moved slowly, bumper to bumper traffic inhibited by torrential rain, visibility a challenge, especially as the outside temperature dropped and windshields began to fog.  We didn’t worry, the car filled with excited chatter as we talked about her trip, her plans, all the networking she was already doing.  Alyssa already has friends in other countries, people she can contact when she wants to travel to other parts of the world.

Along the way, our cell phones sent us flash flood warnings, conditions that were already obvious.  Many lanes along the tollway were already obscured by rising water.  When we turned into the lane to go to the international terminal, the underpass to the terminal was dangerously flooded.  I stopped the car, then gunned the engine with a little prayer that we would make it to the other side.  The car actually floated a little bit!  We pulled through the parking lot gate, took the parking ticket, then joined the crowd looking for parking spaces.  Fortunately, someone pulled out of a space close to the terminal and I grabbed the space.  Alyssa took responsibility for her new suitcases, a set with four wheels on the bottom that roll easily.  I took the large two wheeled duffle and two wheeled suitcase.  We negotiated the crowded covered walk way into the international terminal.

Where was the United check in?  I slapped my forehead for not checking the terminal number with Alyssa before getting to the airport.  O’Hare is a hub for United, so even the flight to Amsterdam would fly out of terminal 1 — on the domestic side of the airport.  Undaunted, we took the elevator down to the train that would take us from international terminal 5 to domestic terminal 1, only to find out the the shuttle trains were shut down.  We had to descend to ground level, get in line for a shuttle bus that would take us to the correct terminal.  The wait was short, our time to check bags and get Alyssa through security to her flight gate getting more critical, but the three hours we had budgeted was still on our side.

The shuttle bus dropped us right in front of the United terminal 1 check in.  We dragged her luggage to the check in kiosk, retrieved the bag tags and ticket, then checked four of her bags at the bag drop.  Her other bag was small enough to be a carry on, something Alyssa had checked carefully as she packed.  After transferring her four bags to the bag drop agent, we embraced for our goodbye before she made the trek through security.  I didn’t want to fight the tears, so I didn’t, my arms around my little girl for the last time this year.  I didn’t want to let go, held her perhaps more tightly than ever before.  I let her go, said a short prayer with her before she headed off towards the TSA line.

As I watched her go, the women at the bag drop counter asked me about my tears.  Through those tears, I told them this was the last time I would see my daughter until next year.  They were clearly touched, both expressing little “Awwwwwww, that’s sweet!” as I walked away.

Before leaving the terminal, I visited the restroom.  I would be stuck in Chicago rush hour traffic in the middle of a rain storm, both not conducive to people with tiny bladders!

Something told me not to leave, to head back towards security.  It was a good thing.  When I started back to the TSA entrance, my redheaded daughter was stomping towards me with that determined look she gets on her face when she is upset and trying not to cry.  When she saw me, she did cry.  I hugged her, asked her what was wrong.  TSA security had checked the size of her carry on, told her it was too large, that it would be a $200 charge to check it.  She would have to go back to United customer service, pay the $200 and check the bag.

I don’t have $200 to spare, she sobbed, and my flight is about to board!

We rushed to the United kiosk, only to find out that it was less than 60 minutes to departure.  Bags could not be checked electronically, they had to be manually checked by a customer service agent and paid for.  The check in line was long, not moving, and boarding for her flight had started.  Time was now at critical mass!  I stopped the customer service agent who was walking the line, asked him what could be done to expedite my daughter through the line, told him why.  The jerk just shrugged his shoulders, pointed at the line, and moved on!  I hadn’t been rude, was very calm, and was determined to stay that way.  I hugged my daughter.  She was in tears and asking me what to do.

You will make it, I assured her even as a bit of panic was threatening to creep in.

We left the line, went outside to the curb side bag check.  The agent was apologetic, sincere in telling us that he could not check bags for international flights.  I steered Alyssa back inside the terminal, directed her to get back in line while I approached another bag drop counter, asked the agent for assistance.

You will need to see a customer service agent, she told me.

I already have.  He doesn’t see the urgency nor does he seem interested in helping at all, I told her.

The agent at the bag drop flagged down another agent, who listened to my story, then looked up Alyssa’s ticket and told me that he could help if his terminal would allow.  It did.  I paid him, he printed the ticket as I motioned Alyssa to come join us.  He took her bag to the gate as I hugged her good bye, this time for the last time (for this trip).

She texted me a few minutes later.  When she arrived at the gate, it was only a few minutes before the flight was to depart.  They had already taken her bags off of the plane.  Apologizing, they loaded her bags again, let her on the plane.

The next morning, she messaged me, told me that she and her bags had arrived safely in Amsterdam.  She had a window seat and a whole row to herself on the plane — so her fortunes changed drastically once the drama was over.

I am praying tomorrow’s flight to Istanbul goes well.  I am sure it will.  She says there are no bag restrictions for that flight.

One left the nest, one remains.

 

 

My Little Bird Takes Flight

Tags

family, life

Emperor Palpatine wasn’t quite sure he was ready for the selfie, but the redhead was strong with the force.

My little girl is about to embark on a bold new life’s adventure, a step that I have watched her approach with impressive courage as well as a faith that this father sees as the key to whatever success she has had and will have from this day forward.  I am a bit jealous.  Alyssa is stepping into the void, with a calculated trust but trust nonetheless.  When her flight leaves for Amsterdam tomorrow evening, then for Istanbul on Friday, she will be on her own.  Friends, family, all that is familiar to her will be left here.  The place she was born to and has lived in for 22 years will be far, far away.  It’s likely I won’t see her again until next summer.

She writes about her new adventure in her blog — There and Back Again.  The thoughts she shares are wonderful to read.  She writes —

God wants all of me. Am I willing to give it to Him? My plans for my future? My relationships? My security? My comfort?

Jesus goes on to say, “Everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life.” (Matthew 19:29)

So. Am I willing to give up the illusion of control? Am I willing to trust that He will take care of me as I step out into the unknown to follow Him?

As I pack my seemingly shrinking suitcases, preparing to leave so many things behind, I am working to loosen my grip, open my hands, and just let go.

She is going to a strange place, hoping that God can use her there in a unique way, willing to take a job that pays less than she could get from teaching in the States but an opportunity for her that she can not pass up.  Could she do the same if she stayed in a part of the world where she is comfortable?  Without a doubt, she could and would.  This is something she feels called to do.  Everything that I have witnessed from her so far tells me that is true.

Her mother is a missionary’s daughter who traveled to and lived in several different countries before she settled in the USA.  That part of her is in her daughter’s blood, an example Alyssa saw in her mother’s family.  They have encouraged her along the way, many supporting this new adventure financially and with valuable advice.. and prayer.  A good part of the dream that brought my daughter to this point in her life, has been inspired through the experiences of her cousins and other family members.

I remember what it was like for my when my own post college adventure began.  I went from college to a place that was different to me, on my own but only hundreds of miles away from my family home, with people strange to me but a culture like my own.  There were plenty of things for me to learn, especially since I was a young minister at a church with it’s own challenges.  I relished those challenges, dove in with gusto into the new adventure.  I smile as I see my daughter diving in with the same determination.  I smile even more as I realize she is far more ready for the adventure than I was.  She has chosen a much larger challenge than I did, the potential for reward equal to the size of the challenge.

Alyssa came over to my place last Friday, purged much of what she has stored out in my garage, asked me to keep some of the more fragile items in the closet in my spare room.  We shared a pizza at her favorite pizza restaurant, talked about many things during the course of our meal together.  She is nervous, like she should be.  She is prepared, as is her way.  I went to church with her yesterday morning, her exhaustion obvious in her demeanor.  I told her that she looks and sounds tired, something she admitted to while also telling me that she hasn’t slept well the past few days.  It’s natural with all that is in front of her, I told her.

Her trip this week has a tie to my blogging.  In Amsterdam, she is being hosted by the friend of one of my dearest blog friends, who I have known for many years through blogging.  How cool is that?

I am happy for my daughter, a tiny bit nervous but confident, hugely proud of my little girl.  I called her my little girl yesterday, something that offended her slightly, but I reminded her that she will always be my little girl.  Tomorrow, I will drive her to the airport, help her with her suitcases, hug her, then watch her until she disappears into the terminal.. away to new people, a new culture, a new and exciting place, a new life.

 

 

Charge

Tags

fun, life, personal

This past weekend was my second Memorial day weekend as a repurposed single (once again, I am avoiding the D word), the first holiday where I felt like the shock of being repurposed has semi worn off.  I don’t think I will ever be completely used to it as long as I am single.  Truthfully, my life right now is not 100% different than it was before, but it’s obviously not the same.  Holiday weekends have always had riding as a necessary ingredient, the bike that consistent thread in my life besides the faith that holds me together.  If I don’t ride, I don’t feel satisfied and it feels like I missed something.  If I don’t go to church, have a chance to worship and refuel my soul, I sense the emptiness, my spiritual battery lacking the charge it needs.  I don’t need epic experiences to feel complete.  There has been enough epic in the past to give me awesome memories.  Really all that is required is the simple, the sublime.  That’s what long weekends are made for.

This Memorial day weekend, I rode every day but Sunday, worshipped Sunday morning with my daughter.  It was awesome.  Here I sit on Tuesday morning, recharged and actually ready for my work day.

Also a necessity for me is spending time with friends.  My first repurposed Memorial day, last year, was spent alone, a lonely time but a time where I needed to be alone.  That alone time last year was necessary as I needed to confront the deep seated emotions that came out when I was by myself.  Truthfully, at that time I didn’t want to spend time with people, so unusual for me that it was a sign that there was more going on than I cared to admit.

Last year, I rode early on Memorial day with my friend Jeremy, who invited me to spend the rest of the day at a cookout with his wife and family.  I declined respectfully, felt a little guilty for doing so because I know Jeremy wanted to help his friend out.  The day was painful but cleansing.  Last year, I learned a little more about the necessity of facing my demons, then leaning on the God I have always known is there, his presence something I have taken for granted my entire life.  I drew close, discovered that God is right there for me.

You may read that last sentence and pooh pooh me.  Go ahead.  God’s presence is something that is not easily comprehended until you have experienced it.

Sunday was a good day, started at Panera.  My daughter was back in town, so she wanted to continue our tradition of Panera before church.  Nothing is more sublime than the blessing of time with my girl, as well as worship time at church with her.  I proudly paraded her around to show her off after the service was over, glad that she is now willing to let her dad do just that, something my bashful little girl would never let me do years ago.  I was in my element, happy to be able to show so many friends the girl who is now a college grad and bravely trekking off to Turkey for her job.  After church, she excused herself to go have lunch with her mom’s family.  I went home for a quick nap before heading into the city for a party with friends, a roof top party in Wrigleyville where I was the only single man amongst a number a women.  I never had to get my own beer the entire afternoon and evening!

What is it about Chicago people and their dogs?  Nearly every person who came to the party brought their dog with them.  The host had two of her own, one a little yippy Yorkie who boldly nipped my ankle when I walked through the door.  We spent the first part of the party on the first floor deck, shielded from the hot sun on an unusually hot day, then moved up on the roof as dusk settled in.  There is something magical about the city, the view of the city skyline and Willis tower looming close, the sunset reflected.  My friend, the host of the party, is someone I have known since she was in high school and one of the students at the camp I helped staff when I was a church youth pastor.  She and a few of her friends looked me up a few years ago.  Christa proudly announced me to the party goers as her former pastor.  She’s not interested in me romantically, something I appreciate as it gives me a chance to have a female friend who I can relax around.  That helped make the party a good time.  It was also nice to be spoiled.

Friday, I rode some single track trails, came home and relaxed a bit, did some laundry and straightened my place up a little bit.  Saturday, I woke up early, rode the trails again, replaced the ignition coils and spark plugs on my VW, got my hairs cut, then went out with a friend to celebrate our birthdays together (mine is this week, hers was Friday).  We had a nice dinner, walked the flower gardens at Cantigny (it’s close to my place), came back to my place for wine and birthday cake and to exchange presents.  She bought me a four tiered plant stand that has a cool solar powered light on it, plus some pots and plants to go on the stand.  We spent the rest of our evening together potting the flowers and setting them on the stand.  I have quite the flower display on my balcony now — four 36″ cocoa fiber lined window boxes on the balcony rails, three pots of geraniums hanging in between the window boxes, two big pots of petunias and marigolds, six small pots of pansies, petunias, alyssum, and marigolds.  Now I have the four tiered plant stand.

Saturday night was another change from last year.  Last year I was separated and in the throes of the drama of a pending divorce, not able to enjoy female company.  My condo was still in transition, my life mirroring that transition.  What a difference a year makes — and it makes me wonder what nuances another year will bring to my life.

In case you are wondering, she is a special friend, someone who could end up more than a special friend, but for the time being she can only see me on Saturday nights (yes, she is single).  That makes it difficult to have anything truly committed.  That’s fine for me.  I am not ready for that commitment, although it would be nice to have someone who is available to me the rest of the week, something that was painfully obvious yesterday.  Friends invited me over for a Memorial day BBQ.  They hoped I would bring a friend with me, but she declined, saying she would see me Saturday.  It was sad for me and, although I had a nice BBQ with my two friends, I felt a little like a third wheel without a date.  That is one of the things about the repurposed life that sucks.  Even then, my Memorial day was different than last year.  Like I said, I am a social person and it felt good to spend the day with friends.

Oh, and I also got up early yesterday for another ride.  Early rides were necessary all weekend as it was unseasonably hot in the Chicago burbs.

More tidbits —

1.  On my way home Saturday night, on a county highway out in the middle of nowhere, I came up on a police SUV with its lights on, a car pulled over.  I got in the left lane to give the police car space.. and promptly ran over the deer that had just been hit and was sprawled across the lane I was in.  I was going around 55 mph, ran completely over the deer.  For some miraculous reason, my car wasn’t damaged nor was there any blood or fur on it.
2. A friend of mine called me for help yesterday afternoon.  He is a triathlete, so he had gone for a swim then a bike ride for his training.  Unfortunately, he had a flat tire and his CO2 cartridge was a dud.  I went to rescue him.  While he was pumping up the tire, I shared some information about one of his crazy exgirlfriends that I had just become privy to (privy to the information, not the girl).  It was both a funny and sad moment.  His ex looked up his ex wife and another ex girlfriend.  Now she is posting on FB with pictures of her with his ex wife and ex fiance.  I told him it’s a good thing he doesn’t have any pets….