The Search for Pertussis

Several months ago, we were advised by my wife’s doctor that we would both need to receive a pertussis (whooping cough) immunization before our son is born. They gave her one in the office, but because he is not my physician I was unable to procure one for myself. I was told simply to drop by one of their walk-in clinics in order to get one.

I then called the walk-in clinic and they informed me that I would have to see a doctor before they could issue me the immunization which would run me close to $200 since I have a deductible. I argued that I did not need to be seen by a physician since my only malady was a susceptibility to whooping cough which could be cured by an injection.

Unwilling to drop $200 so that a doctor could walk in, shake my hand, and then send in a nurse to give me a shot, I decided to call a few other health emporiums. Each and every one insisted upon medical counsel before they would dispense the goods, an unusual caveat for a service I can get from a pharmacy tech at a Walgreens.

I finally decided to schedule an appointment with the local health department where, for $50 cash money I could receive both immunity and a lollipop. At my wife’s next doctor’s appointment, I was asked if I had received my pertussis shot yet. When I brought him up to speed on my difficulties and swore that I would have my mechanic give me the injection before I dropped $200 on it, he insisted on intervening on my behalf.

He informed me that the clinic itself had a “shot clinic” that dispensed routine immunizations without the cost of an office visit. Elated, my wife and I walked to the counter of the “shot clinic” and I asked the receptionist what the cost would be for a pertussis immunization. The conversation quickly slid into lunacy:

“How much does the pertussis shot cost?”

“Do you have insurance?”

“Yes”

“Then we can go ahead and give you the injection and just bill insurance”

“I have a deductible so the cost will be out-of-pocket anyway and I just wanted see if this way would be cheaper than the health department.”

“Well, we will not know how much the shot costs until we bill insurance.”

“How is that even possible in a capitalistic society? If you have a static cost for the shot and a built-in profit margin you already know the amount of the bill you will send them so just tell that amount to me.”

“We cannot generate the cost until the service has been rendered.”

“Well I am not about to allow you to render a service until I know what it will cost.”

“Perhaps you could call your insurance provider and find out the cost.”

“How could they possibly offer a better perspective on the cost of a rendered service than the entity rendering that service?”

“I am not sure what you need me to do.”

“OK, let’s say I just walked in, don’t have insurance, and wish to simply hand you a pre-determined amount of American currency in exchange for a pertussis immunization. What would that amount be?”

“Sir, are you saying that you no longer have insurance?”

At this point we had involved three employees and the woman behind me looked as if she was contemplating violence if I did not get out of the way, so I just told them to forget it and decided to go to the health department. My plan was foiled; however, when I looked on my insurance provider’s website and they indicated that the shot should be covered 100% as “preventative care.”

Now, a less frugal individual would have simply gone to the health department and moved on with his life, but I decided to call my insurance helpline and go for the win. I spoke to young woman named “Rebecca” who informed me that the shot would be covered as long as it was billed under the name of an in-network physician. When I informed her that the allure of the “shot clinic” was the absence of a physician, she informed me that this was impossible and asked me who requested I get the shot. When I replied the suggestion had come from my wife’s OBGYN she replied that it would be rather difficult to file that claim.

She then called the clinic with me on the line and after ten minutes of bartering the clinic agreed to bill my shot under whatever doctor was listed as “on-call” at the moment the needle entered my arm. I was assured that this would allow me to receive my desired immunization at my desired price. God help me if I ever need surgery…….

Adventures In Texas

Over the Thanksgiving holidays my wife and I visited her family in Texas, a trip which requires about twelve hours of driving. Although this was not the first time we had made the journey, it was certainly the most eventful.

While on a Texas state highway, I had someone pull out in front of me with apparent disregard for our close proximity. This, in and of itself, was not unusual as you don’t drive 700 miles without becoming accustomed to being cut off. What was unique was the fact that this individual was sitting astride a poorly-maintained Yardman riding mower, a vehicle with a top speed comparable to a brisk walk. Oblivious to the oncoming traffic, he meandered across both lanes until he reached the median and appeared to have forgotten his purpose.

This remained a point of highway conversation until the journey home when we found ourselves bumper to bumper on Interstate 30. I was riding behind a large Ford Dually in the far left lane when it violently swerved into the adjacent lane to avoid an overstuffed recliner resting in our path. The armchair was fully reclined, neutrally colored, and facing oncoming traffic. I, too, swerved into the adjacent lane just about the time my sphincter muscle consumed the rear seam of my jeans.

With all this excitement we found several occasions to stop, stretch our legs, and reflect upon our existence. During one such hiatus, I found myself in a gas station restroom that was on the cutting edge of latrine/urinal hybrid technology. While a lesser petroleum dispensary would simply have purchased a Kohler and gone about their lives, the fine folks at this establishment decided to reassign some sheet metal and pipe to create a “Lurinal.”

The Lurinal

The “Lurinal” did feature a type of automatic flushing mechanism in the form of a suspended length of pipe that dripped water into the basin of the apparatus. It was unclear whether the leakage was intentional or the result of poor craftsmanship, but either way all body fluids were moved toward the drain. Its width suggested that it could be utilized by more than one person, but it was not long enough to allow tandem pissing without a marked degree of social discomfort. While the service station technically resided in Texas, it was close enough to the Arkansas border to explain the copious use of stainless-steel bathroom fixtures.

Traveling aside, I and several other male family members had an opportunity to spend a few hours at an indoor rock climbing facility. The building was about three stories tall and contained several climbing areas of varying difficulty. So, after donning my rented shoes and unflattering crotch-harness, I found myself clinging to a wall some twenty-five feet in the air as my atrophied muscles constantly reminded me that I had chosen computer science as a career.

Despite this, I found a small sense of accomplishment in being able to ring the bell mounted at the apex of the facility. This physical triumph was quickly diminished as my companions and I watched an employee laterally traverse the entire rock formation, without a harness, and while wearing a weighted vest. From that point on, it became somewhat difficult to celebrate summiting the beginner tower while Flex McNimble recreates Cliffhanger in your peripheral vision.

Our hotel was well-maintained and staffed by attentive and friendly employees who always went out of their way to insure your stay was as comfortable as possible. The one exception was the breakfast, which was served off a menu in the lobby restaurant instead of being presented buffet style. The choices were essentially the same (pancakes, cereal, toast) but they were “made to order” by the resident chef.

The first morning I requested a waffle and bacon only to have the cook appear at our table and, in what became a familiar ritual, explain why that entrée was unavailable. In my case, the waffle maker had sustained a rather serious injury during a routine cleaning and was no longer functional. This table-side visit became so commonplace, my wife and I would snicker as she appeared, menu in hand, to explain to other crestfallen guest why their order could not be fulfilled. To her credit, she had a gentle table-side manner but the sheer volume of unavailable meals suggested either laziness or espionage.

Part of our morning routine was speculating as to how she was explaining the lack of oatmeal or unavailability of the blueberry scones:

• “I am so sorry Mrs. Jones, but there was a violent insurrection in central Florida last week and as such we are unable to offer fresh squeezed orange juice.”
• “I apologize Mr. Franks, but an unnervingly-specific electrical fire has rendered the omelet griddle inoperable while leaving the rest of the kitchen intact.”
• “This is embarrassing, but a disgruntled maid urinated in our bagel oven so we are unable to offer that selection until the health department can be onsite to re-certify it.

They could have saved time and just asked whether we wanted Frosted Flakes or Raisin Bran, but I suppose the pageantry was necessary to maintain appearances.

Like It's Your Birthday

The Spare Time Bowling and Family Fun Center in South Glens Falls, New York has seen many a celebration, so it was no surprise when a young man we will call “Stu” decided to have his 16^th birthday party there. He invited friends and schoolmates to what they all assumed would be a routine gala of rented shoes and semi-operational air-hockey tables. What occurred, however, will undoubtedly become local legend.

What we know is this: At some point during the evening, the co-ed party of fifteen & sixteen year-olds were ushered into the over-21  karaoke bar where they witnessed an exclusive performance by a pair of female adult entertainers employed by a service called “Tops in Bottoms.” This performance involved lap dances, grinding, and judging by the photo below a well-executed French wheelbarrow. The performance and party, concluded without incident and everyone returned home. In the following days someone, presumably the birthday boy himself, uploaded several pictures of the festivities to Facebook where they came to the attention of another attendee’s mother.

She alerted the local media which led to the district attorney’s office launching an investigation. It appears that the erotic entertainment was arranged by “Stu’s” parents and now they could face charges of child endangerment. In addition, the bowling alley is under review by the state for apparently allowing a group of minors to have contact with strippers in their bar. The strippers may be facing charges of sexual contact with a minor but haven’t publicly responded to the accusations. Stu and his parents have hired an attorney and thus far have refrained from comment.

With so many unanswered questions it is difficult to know where to begin. Personally, I am hoping the parents give a full statement so that we can all become privy to their thought process. Did this entire fiasco begin with a conversation between the young man’s mother and father?

“Dan, what are we going to do for Stu’s birthday party this year?”

“Well sweetheart, judging by his Internet browsing history he only has two interests and we can’t afford a vehicle right now.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“I suppose we are just going to have to take his pubescent teenage friends to the bowling alley and subject them to the gyrating bosoms of total strangers.”

“If you think that’s best. But Dan, where would we even begin to……”

“Honey please! I’m on the phone! [Yes, is this Tops in Bottoms? Are you still running that Labor Day promotion? Great! Tell Trixie not to forget the Jello canon this time.]

There will be numerous criticisms of Stu’s parents, but their real mistake was tipping their hand too soon. How are they possibly going to top this next year when he turns seventeen? At this rate their son will be expecting to snort coke off a Swedish hooker at the local Golden Coral.

As for Stu, you honestly can’t blame the kid for posting the photos on Facebook. It couldn’t have been easy to convince the other guys in study hall that you spent your birthday staring at the business-end of Victoria’s secret. It was probably all he could do to keep from tagging himself twice.    

It would appear that the only party that exhibited worse judgment than the young man’s parents was the proprietor of the bowling alley. There are only two ways to answer the question, “Can I utilize your family entertainment establishment to subject my underage son and his peers to a professional booty-clap?” and Spare Time Bowling got it wrong. And how did these kids end up in the “No One Under 21” area in the first place? Did management have the presence of mind to move the performance from lane six to a secluded area but the idea of just canceling never occurred to them?

I suppose the culpability of the performers is contingent upon how much they knew. I would like to believe that no seasoned exotic dancer would knowingly place a high-school sophomore in a “thigh vise” in front of twenty-five witnesses and it is possible that Stu and his friends looked mature for their age, but the venue should have set off some alarm bells. Let’s just hope that “Tops in Bottoms” exercises more discretion if they get a birthday booking at a Chuck-E-Cheese.

I am still unable to decipher the group’s name. Does it mean that they are the dominate force in posteriors or that their blouses will eventually be stowed in their shorts? “Tops OR Bottoms” would indicate customization options and “Tops FOR Bottoms” would lend itself to some sort of carnal barter system, but “Tops in Bottoms” is rather enigmatic. Regardless, if they don’t get out in front of this thing they may have to change their act to “Lace & Litigation.” 

A Baby Story Part 5

Not long ago, my wife and I embarked on one of the greatest privileges of any new parent: the baby registry. The concept is decidedly first-world in nature: you pick things you want and other people use their hard-earned disposable income to acquire them for you as a reward for your fertility. So we walked into our local Target store, acquired a scan gun, and covered each and every inch of the baby isles.

First, we agonized over bottle systems, each more vented and ergonomic than the last. Every brand reassured the consumer that it was designed, bankrolled, and recommended by a team of pediatricians working in conjunction with an ASE-certified diesel mechanic. Based on name alone, I was leaning toward Dr. Brown but I felt they really missed an opportunity by not getting into the diaper market.

Then came the nipples, oh sweet humanity, the nipples. It isn’t enough to select a brand based on the liquid delivery system; one must insure that said system is dispensed through a bottle nipple that will closely mimic the mother’s factory equipment. If the dichotomy is too great, your infant could suffer from “nipple confusion” which sounds more like a Cinemax production than a medical diagnosis. We were assured by the packaging that each offering had been designed by a team of nippleologists to guarantee interface compatibility.

Once our bottle system had been established, we had to decide how we wished to take our child’s temperature. While the oldest, and apparently most reliable, method still involves an unmentionable area, many companies have begun offering less invasive techniques for ascertaining your child’s body temperature. For the undecided, one product offered a single device with interchangeable attachments. You could choose forehead, ear, rectum, or armpit simply by affixing a separate probe not unlike most modern weed-eaters.

Next, it was on to the pacifiers. As with the bottle nipples, we were inundated with claims of “natural contours” and “soothing design” that would mollify the most violent of infantile outbursts. One company had even trademarked the name “Binky” in an attempt to conjure up the buyer’s childhood nostalgia. We spent almost ten minutes agonizing over which brand of later-to-be-recalled Chinese plastic our son would have the privilege of drooling on. Needless to say, we simply registered for all of them.

Finally, we needed to choose some mentally-stimulating interactive manipulatives to improve our child’s cognitive development. Marketed simply as “toys” just a few decades ago, these items utilize colors and sounds to enhance your offspring’s neurological prowess. Apparently, the same set of colored plastic rings I played with as a child suddenly has the ability to prevent dyslexia.

Off course, the juggernaut in early development is the Baby Einstein series. Personally, I feel it is misleading to associate a few re-branded toys with one of the greatest theoretical physicists the world has ever known. Plus, it creates an inflated set of expectations for the parent. While I may envision my 1-year old son dissecting Rachmaninoff concertos after I hand him the Baby Einstein Neptune Ocean Orchestra Musical Toy, the truth is that he will simply giggle at the pretty lights while soiling himself. I propose a line of toys with a more balanced and realistic approach to my child’s cognitive abilities like “The middle-management play set” or “The 3-year associates degree jungle gym.”