Evidently the best time to talk to a claims examiner at an insurance company about a disability claim is Friday afternoon. Imagine my surprise when the claims examiner picked up the phone on the first ring. Fully expecting voice mail, I found myself speaking with Jessica, the claims examiner. I was immediately reminded of a Seinfeld episode where Jerry does a monologue about calling someone, only to be disappointed when the person answers and there is no rollover into voice mail.  We had a brief and friendly conversation. She did have the doctor’s statement and  patient notes. She would review with the appropriate people and get back to me within the hour. We shall see, but my experience with her tells me she does what she says she’s going to do. Soon I will know if the logjam has been breached.

The insurance companies have protocols and procedures to be followed in order to review and pay (or not pay) claims.  I liken it to court etiquette at Versailles in the Eighteenth Century or in Vienna during the waning years of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  If my “papers are in order” (use your best Major Strasser from Casablanca voice), the claim will be paid.

Stay tuned.

The wheels of fate grind on mercilessly. No word yet. And I’m tired. It will be 1800 Hours Central Time in twentytwo minutes. We ate overpriced food at a swankier restaurant, all the while waiting for The Phone Call. I am going to bed at 1900 Hours Eastern Time for some kind of rest.
Adios, amigos.

This is a piece I wrote back in 2014, when euthanasia and physician-assisted suicide were “hot” topics.  The parallel to fin de siecle´ Vienna was never mentioned.

The German term in the title was a commonplace saying in Vienna during the twilight years of the Habsburg Empire. Suicide was quite common in Vienna on the eve of the Great War. Better to overdose on morphine than to stick a Luger in your mouth was the sentiment reflected in the saying. Why all this morose chatter at the start of a new day, you grumble?

The news people have taken up the story of a woman in Oregon electing to take a doctor-prescribed lethal drug to end her life, rather than suffer the last stages of a dreadful and painful cancer. I should add that the lethal dosage of the drug was prescribed by the doctor for the specific purpose of ending her life. Everybody has an opinion about this and, quite frankly, I don’t care what yours is.
Like the Viennese of 1900, the culture has taken on a world weariness, Weltschmerz is the rather poetic German term. Optimism is a rare outlook today. This culture has lost its vitality.

Big Drama can be about the passion of desires consummated. Or it can be about money. Early this morning, at one and two and three, it was about money. The big drama was between my ears.
Back in 2012, I finally had the money to settle my credit card debt. The amount of money that the banks forgave was imputed to me as income. For example a $20,000 debt settled for $10,000 would mean, according to Uncle Sugar, that the banks gave me $10,000. And in a way, they did. I received a 1099 and I had to pay taxes. Only I hadn’t, yet.  Monday, I paid the bill, but I stayed up worrying and castigating J and myself for this predicament.
Funny thing is, when I wrote the check, the drama evaporated as the ink dried on the paper. Soon there was only an envelope passing in my hand, through the open car window, into the big blue metal mouth of a USPS mailbox.
Life continues.
Monday morphed into a four mile walk, a shower, a cup of tea, and a good book. Today the good book is Parisian Lives by Samuel Steward. He has a good, engaging style and I’m developing feeling for his characters. Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas figure in the story. Stein is portrayed, not as a legend, but a wonderfully rich, human character.  This is a book I recommend.

It is 8:49 PM. I did my walk today, schlep, it felt like today. I was dragging my wrist heart-rate monitor. I could not figure out how to turn on the stopwatch function.  “Patience, White Boy, the Master

will reveal more of its mysteries when you are ready,” the little voice in my head says.

The device isn’t that hard. I think the brace’s physical restraints forces me to put more energy into doing the least little thing than I am willing to admit. So I make the learning curve on piddly challenges that much steeper.
Actually, I’m pretty happy today. I look forward to reading people’s blogs. And there is less drama with you guys than in Facebook. What you share in the way of problems, like aged parents, are genuine. I empathize. I’ve walked that road.
I am doing the blog on my Smartphone. Something new.

In my little stretch of the Blogosphere, there is not an endless series of passionate encounters that affirms my sexuality and the sexuality of my wife, J.  As much as I like fantasy, I try to be honest about what goes on with me.  If you want bull caca, there is always Donald Trump, just to name one.

I am in the process of phasing in a Mio FUSE, one of those heart rate monitor/activity tracker devices that is tied into your Smartphone. I wore it yesterday for my walk and was generally pleased. The pedometer is accurate. It recorded my distance walked at 4.07 miles.  That confirms the distance I recorded for course length with my auto’s odometer. i say “phasing in” because I am a real curmudgeon when it comes to new technology or, Hell, even old technology. I must confess that I have yet to figure out (or even bother to use) that Kitchen Aid monster mixer thingy.  I feel like I ought to be drummed out of the Cook’s Army for that shortcoming. The way I see it though, it’s just one more thing to clean.

Generally pleased with its first use, I resolved last night to learn more, but I didn’t go back to the tutorials. I was caught up in a lesbian romance novel, At Her Feet  by Rebekah Weatherspoon.  It was a well-paced read, with characters I would like to meet and have as friends. It explored a BDSM dynamic called Mommy/little girl.  It isn’t exactly age play, but there is a Dominant partner and a submissive partner in the couple.

I am intrigued by relationship itself.  I look at what I don’t share about myself with J and wonder about her private self that she doesn’t share with me.   I don’t discuss my love of the erotic,  of the mystery of sexual love.  I conceal my interest and curiosity, perpetuating my sense of shame.  Needless to say, the concealing doesn’t elicit trust. and the cycle continues.

“I’ll go back to reality, but only as a tourist.” is a beautiful, sharp and hilarious one-liner from the play and film  A Thousand Clowns.  I have forgotten whose line it was, but it fits how I feel today.  I have to run down The Mystery of the Missing Paperwork  in order that my disability checks resume. That is a priority, plus pay the homeowners association dues and return a DVD to Amazon. Then I must send a mislabeled book back to an Amazon vendor somewhere in Ohio.

This weekend I got closer to J than I have been in a long time. We spent almost the whole weekend together.  Friday night would have been her 39th wedding anniversary to her first husband. She tells me, “My wedding night was when I lost my virginity.” I ask her to tell me more about the experience, not from a perspective of physical details, but from an emotional, a “feelings” point of view. She says nothing.  That silence said more than words.  How do I get closer? There are things that need to be said. Things like, “Honey, I feel like you hold back from me.  Is that why you are afraid of sex and don’t have orgasms?”

Sunday night, she did laundry. I had to put my jock straps in the washer, because she did not want to touch them. Is that weird or isn’t it? Underwear is OK. Jocks are a no-go. Then when I didn’t wear underwear under my pajamas, she acted surprised. There is much to be said, evidently.  I guess we’re all afraid of something.

Living in full “I’ll do it when I feel like it” mode has its advantages, if only psychological.  I get to re-live the Golden Age of Adolescence when I could justify all kinds of sloth. Wearing the back brace offers the perfect out to do nothing. But I know I can do something,  even if it means getting on my knees like some grovelling bottom to clean the toilets and sweep up the cracker crumbs that, by now, are ground into the carpet. The newspapers have caught up with me. There are bags to put them in and take to the recycle place near the fire station.  So the weekend looms on the horizon as that opportunity to tidy up the crib.

I was married to a woman once who was big into cleaning and keeping things tidy. It’s not a bad position to come from. Currently I am married to a hoarder. Hoarders are lovely people. Seriously. There’s nothing wrong with them.  They do, however, have considerable space demands that block certain niceties, like guests visiting the home, or a Christmas tree. I learn to work around the limitations. But I carry the resentment in my heart.  I have never had a fit of full-blown rage about living in this mess; so it continues.  My Dad rarely lost his temper, so I don’t lose mine. There are pluses and minuses to being reserved. Big plus is that you don’t scare the be-Jesus out of children.

This weekend, I will do something. The house will look better and cleaner.  I can do it.  She will help.