Fall back

Ooops I did it again.

I'm actually not a clumsy person, but you wouldn't know it from this post. Or this one. Subconsciously it may be because I believe in the rule of three more strongly than I thought, because this will be the third post I've done about me falling hard and flat on my back like a ton of bricks.

Fat, Jewish bricks.

Here's what happened.

I was minding my own business, doing award-winning, crowd-pleasing, results-getting, competition-killing, raise-worthy work at my bedroom desk for my 100% remote job with the world's leading cybersecurity company. In the course of that vitally important work, I make it a point to stay hydrated.

As one does.

Since it was just after noon, I started out to the kitchen to see if there was something good hiding out in the fridge for lunch. But before I got there, I turned around and went back to my desk to clear two water glasses (see hydration above) and put them in the dishwasher.

Are you with me so far? We're coming up on the part where the hardwood floor breaks my fall. And almost my back.

As I reached for the glasses, my very fashionable yet reasonably priced Vionic flip-flops got caught between the plastic desk chair mat and the area rug it overlaps. I started falling forward, water glasses in hand. Then I thought, let's see if I can put my early years as a danseur with the New York City Ballet to good use—if I turn, maybe I can slow my roll by grabbing the edge of the bed. The glasses went flying from my hands. I tried grabbing the bed and missed, which isn't easy cause that sucker is a two kids, two adults and two dog accommodating California King.

Thanks to the inertia, momentum, velocity and enormous amount of gravity at work, that giant thud you heard a little after noon PST today was me.

As luck—my luck—would have it, I was home alone: my daughter has a big time advertising job and had to go into her real office to work, and the wife had to take our German Shepherd Ace to the vet for some blood work. So I laid there a minute on the floor, my back screaming every swear word it knows at me, and tried to figure out how I was going to stand up.

The answer was fast. I sat up, grabbed the bed for leverage and got myself up off the floor. With that one move, it quickly became apparent my back wasn't going to be done swearing and screaming at me any time soon.

Just like my high school girlfriend.

Fortunately I had an acupuncture appointment this afternoon, so I managed to lower myself into my thirteen-year old Lexus ES350 (I really need a car with higher ground clearance) and went. And instead of working on my feet (long story, another post), he worked on my back.

It felt better for a little while afterwards. I don't know if it was physical or mental, but you can say that about most things with me.

So tonight, it's the heating pad on and off every twenty minutes, trying to keep the grunting sounds every time I move to a reasonable volume and not moving around too much. With any luck it'll start to feel better in the morning, and I'll be in for a quick recovery in the coming days.

Of course, the bad news is my Cirque du Soleil audition is off for now.

See you next fall

January 1st and I have what you might call a tumultuous relationship. Oh sure, I'm always happy when it comes around, but then something inevitably happens to break the mood.

For example last New Year's Day, I found myself in the ER with my blood pressure somewhere between steam coming out of a pressure cooker and a lovely hillside view. That was because at the time, I'd been prescribed a new med which, come to find out, funny thing, I was deathly allergic to. Doctors, amIrite?

Anyway, this new year the tradition continued. We got home from a lovely time at our annual January 1st brunch with the usual suspects. I was in the kitchen by the fabulous new farmer's sink we put in during our remodel a couple years ago, and turned around to walk back into the living room.

Unbeknownced to me, my teeny, tiny, virtually invisible 90-lb. German Shepherd had stealthily snuck up behind me and was standing there. When I turned to go, I went ass-over-teakettle (hence the picture) into a wall, the refrigerator and finally landed face down on the kitchen floor like a bag of rocks.

Physical comedy was never my strong suit.

My son happened to be sitting in a chair that faces our open kitchen and saw the entire event. He quickly came over to ask if I was ok, which I was. Besides my knee, arm, back and cheek, the only thing that was injured was my pride. And my until then perfect tour en l'air (look it up).

So bruised but undaunted, I continue into the new year with a brand new resolution—to try to be more careful and aware of my surroundings every January 1st.

And look both ways while crossing the kitchen.

Game of Phones

It's September again. That time of year when the weather gets suprisingly, unbearably hot for a month.

Fall is gently knocking at summer's door.

Kid's are learning and playing back in school.

Christmas displays are going up at Home Depot.

Rich Siegel starts waxing nostalgic.

Oh, and one more thing.

The new iPhones are announced.

Every year at this time Apple introduces their newest iPhone model. Sometimes the changes and improvements are minor, sometimes more substantial. Either way, they're always expensive.

This year was different. Not in the price tag, but in the offerings.

Sure, they went sequentially and introduced an iPhone 8 and 8Plus with some marginal improvements. But because it's the 10th anniversary of the introduction of the iPhone, anticipation for this year's event reached a fever pitch, not just among fanboys and the Apple community, but also the press and the general public. And the credit card companies.

To mark the occasion, Apple cooked up (#seewhatIdidthere) a special edition model: the iPhone X (pronounced "ten"). And to go with the special edition is a special price: $999 for the 64GB version, and $1149 for the 256GB version.

The iPhone X comes with all sorts of new technical whammy-jammy like facial mapping and recognition, emojis that animate with the users facial expressions (dubbed "Animojis"), using gestures instead of a home button among a few of them.

I have the same problem with iPhones as I do with cars—I hang on to them too long (insert high school girlfriend joke here).

My first one, phone, not girlfriend, was the 3GS. I thought it was amazing, and I never missed the chance to gloat about it to my friends who only had the iPhone 3. I was so happy with it, I sat out the 4, 4S and the 5. By that time though, it had gotten to the point where I couldn't update the system and a lot of apps wouldn't work on it. So when the 5S came out, I was first in line.

Well, figuratively. I'll never be first in line for a new iPhone. I can't wait that many days in line for anything, unless it's Springsteen tickets. Which I can now get on the iPhone.

The circle of life.

When the 6 Plus came out with the larger screen, I traded up. My eyes get worse every second they're open, and the larger real estate for the screen was a no brainer. Then the 7Plus came out with the better camera. Since I'd gotten the 6Plus on the lease program where you can upgrade without penalty every year, I walked in and did just that.

I'll admit it. I've been an Apple guy almost since the beginning with computers and phones. Every September when they announce the new iPhone, I'm like Steve Martin in The Jerk with the new phonebook.

If I'm being honest with myself, and where's the percentage in that, I don't really need the iPhone X. My 7Plus would do just fine for another few years, and I could bank the $1149, or put it to good use towards something else (Springsteen tickets).

But knowing me, and the tower of strength I am, I'll probably cave like Jim Gaffigan at the dessert bar and get it.

Unless next year's iPhone 11 cleans the house, walks the dog and washes the car.

Then I might wait.

Brace yourself

Way back in January, I was taking my son somewhere. I don't remember exactly where, but knowing him it was probably a movie, a panel discussion about a movie or to meet friends so they could go see a movie.

Anyway, I forgot something in the house, so I bounded up the four brick steps on our walkway, then caught my foot on the top step and went down faster than a My Big Fat Greek Wedding sequel.

I hurt my left wrist pretty bad and thought I'd broken it. So I went to our local urgent care and, after an X-ray and exam, learned it was just a severe sprain. They wrapped it up in a wrist brace, gave me some Advil and said to take it easy.

I didn't really think much more of that visit until I got the bill for it. The charge for the X-rays and exam were fine. It was the charge for the wrist brace that caught my eye: $307.55. Here's the funny part: this Urgent Care facility is next door - literally twenty feet - from a CVS drug store, which happens to carry the exact same wrist brace for $28.79.

This aggression will not stand man.

I called the billing department and talked to Eric. He was very understanding, and saw right away the charge for the brace was excessive. He was going to have a supervisor review it, and meanwhile he was putting my bill on hold. God love you Eric, you made this so easy.

What I found out was apparently Eric was a little lax on follow through.

Weeks later, I received another bill with the exact same charge. So I called again and spoke to Carlos this time. Clearly Carlos was a man of action. Unfortunately, it was the exact same action as Eric, which was no action at all.

Long story short, I spoke with Carlos a second time when I received yet another bill, and Aida when I received a collection letter. All of them told me, repeatedly, my bill would be on hold while the amount was being disputed.

I called one more time, and got my old pal Eric again. Eric and I go way back. He was shocked, shocked I tell you, to learn this matter hadn't been resolved. So he put me on hold, then put me on with his supervisor, Bob.

It was evident to me Bob the supervisor was suffering from a medical condition called full of shit.

The symptoms are fairly easy to diagnose, even for a layman.

Blatant lies like "that's what we pay for the wrist brace" and "we've already put it in the system, we can't reverse it" that are easy to shoot down. Unwilling to confront and accept facts, like when I told Bob he actually could reverse it and there was no way it cost that much. He then apparently had a psychotic break, telling me urgent care doctors never refer patients to CVS to get medical equipment, despite the fact I informed him I'd been directed there many times to pick up a bandage, gauze or some kind of ointment (never a fan of that word).

At the end of the conversation, Bob's condition must've flared up. He said he couldn't do anything, and I told him no, he was choosing not to do anything (my therapy dollars at work). Without any investigation of his own, he replied that yes, he wasn't going to do anything.

Clearly, Bob wasn't familiar with Jeff letters.

Moments after hanging up with Bob, I sat down and wrote the CEO of the hospital system that runs the urgent care. I explained the situation, why it was unacceptable, attached pictures of the proximity of the CVS to the urgent care center as well as copies of the numerous bills and the collection letter.

Bob didn't know it, but he'd messed with the wrong cowboy.

Within 24 hours, I received a call from the VP Director of Patient Billing. She was apologizing up and down the place for my experience with her department. Of course the charge was excessive, and she was removing it from the bill leaving a balance of zero. Then, icing on the cake, she informed me she'd already spoken with Bob, Eric, Carlos and Aida about how they could've better handled my situation.

I imagine Bob's medical condition resolved itself right through his pants when he heard she was calling.

She also asked if I'd be willing to come in and talk to her department - including the people I'd spoken to - and give a talk about the experience from a patient point of view, and make suggestions how it could be improved.

God knows, I love playing a big room, so I told her I'd be happy to.

The moral of my story is next time you get an outrageous bill, medical or otherwise, don't just whip out the check book and gripe about it. Write a letter - to the person at the top - and ask them to do something about it. You have nothing to lose. More often than not, in my experience, they'll take some sort of action to resolve the issue.

And if you wind up talking to Bob, say hi for me.

Have a nice trip. See you next fall.

Yesterday I did something I haven't done in a very long time. And no, it wasn't write copy someone wanted to read. You're so predictable.

What I did was fall flat on my ass.

It was bound to happen. With two kids, two dogs and all the equipment that comes with them, it's no wonder the house is a virtual minefield most of the time. I would've said obstacle course, but obstacles can be overcome. In a minefield, you always have to be in a state of high alert.

Anyway, we have two extremely comfortable chairs in the living room. Right now they're covered in the powder blue slipcovers. Those are the ones we have on them when we're not using the floral ones. Clearly I lost the slipcover battle, which explains why we don't have the Elvis in Hawaii slipcovers. Or the ones with the cowboys and fire engines.

I might be getting off topic here.

Anyway, I was sitting in one of our comfy living room chairs, working on my laptop doing extensive, in-depth research into the topic of my next blogpost: Survivability Tactics & Probabilities and the Implications Of The Thermonuclear Threat.

That or I was watching Between Two Ferns. I can't remember.

At any rate, I got up to do something, and as I did I was closing my laptop and not looking down. Which was bad news for me, because there was a musical instrument in its case on the floor in front of me. My foot caught it, I lost my balance and went careening off a low bookshelf into a wall, involuntarily pirouetting like Baryshnikov and falling like a redwood all while trying desperately not to drop the laptop.

Unfortunately, not having my hands available to help right the ship, I went down like a ton of bricks. Fortunately I had a hardwood floor to cushion my fall.

The good news is I managed to stop the laptop from crashing to the floor. I was also able to hold my neck in such a way that my head didn't slam against the floor. The bad news is I'm feeling it this morning. I'm sore, scraped and bruised (which also happens to be the name of my law firm).

Having kids - well, teenagers - in the house, one thing I always notice is how resilient they are. They heal fast from almost everything: colds, injuries, hurt feelings, bad parenting. I however do not heal that fast. I fully anticipate hurting for a couple weeks while my body figures out what the hell I was thinking trying to get out of a chair.

So for the next few days, it's going to be ice packs, heating pads and Neosporin. And as long as I don't look to far to the right, my neck doesn't remind me how sore it is.

I've heard a rumor that, in some homes, there are actually dedicated spaces where you can store your belongings so they're out of the way and don't pose a risk to people walking in the house. But I'm not falling for it.

Grandma got screwed

And now for an update on the patient.

You'll remember back in October I published this post talking about how my mother-in-law had fallen on our top step, broken her arm and was about to have surgery. Well, a lot's happened since that post.

For starters, as you can see by her x-ray, grandma got screwed good and hard four times right after her fall. Given her age and the position she was in, it was exactly what she needed.

Yeah, I'm making sexual innuendos at the expense of an 85-year old woman. Deal with it.

At her recent doctor visit, he was very pleased at her progress. Her arm had regained more movement than he would've expected from someone her age so soon.

She's also lost more than twelve pounds since she's been staying with us because she's eating much better thanks to my wife's cooking and not munching on all the chocolate she has lying around her house.

I don't know what the hell my excuse is.

Where she used to walk up our driveway so she didn't have to climb four steps, she, well, she still walks up the driveway. Except when I'm with her I make her walk the steps. She's a bit set in her ways and severely exercise resistant. Going up the steps is good for her. And of course, making an 85 year old woman work harder is just one of life's great joys.

My living room couch is her bed, and she has everything she needs pretty much within arm's reach - the good arm. And while I can't parade around half-dressed as I'm prone to do, I can still watch the flat-screen late into the night because Grandma drifts off fairly early and her hearing isn't what it used to be.

She'll have her driving privileges back soon, and then I imagine she'll be moving back to her house which she visits once a week after church to pick up a bag full of an obscene amount of junk mail I can only hope for the sake of our forests not all seniors are getting.(Yes, that sentence had 54 words - let's see you do it.)

Every once in awhile Grandma complains about the unfamiliar ache in her arm. Having had a steel plate and five screws in my arm from an auto accident years ago, I completely understand the feeling. It's a unique kind of pain, only made worse when the weather gets chilly or it rains. But it does have its benefits. I used to love setting off the metal detector at the airport. In a pre-9/11 world it was a lot of fun.

Anyway, I make a point of cutting off her complaining at the pass, because it doesn't help us or her in the long run. Instead, what I do is remind her she's not the first person to have a broken arm and she won't be the last (although this is the first broken bone she's ever had).

What I should do is tell her about the great racehorse Barbaro, and the 27 screws he had to endure. And then tell her in that gentle, compassionate, caring way anyone who knows me knows I have, the four little words that would make it all better.

You got off easy.

Wheel Of B-O-R-E-D-O-M

I once told my son I couldn’t imagine a more boring television host than Nick Lachey on The Sing-Off. He took a beat, then said, “Carson Daly.”

He was right of course. But if he said that today, I’d come back with “Pat Sajak.”

A few of you may remember from this post that my mother-in-law, Grandma to the kids, fell at our house, broke her arm and had to have surgery. That was back around October 19th. Since she got out of the hospital she’s been staying with us.

Seems one of the routines we’ve fallen (see what I did there?) into has been following up Jeopardy, which we always watch, with WOF, which we never watched until Grandma was invited to use our couch for a bed for a few weeks. It always reminds me of the old joke that Vanna White is so stupid they have to light the letters so she knows which ones to turn.

But just a few viewings tell you that's the least of this show’s problems.

Let’s start here – apparently the contestants are coached to ar-tic-u-late every word in the answers clearly, distinctly and loudly.

You know, the way people talk in the real world.

Sajak always saunters over to them in his neutral color suit that totally clashes with his spray tan, makes some lame joke in a voice that has no modulation or energy, and then has some excruciatingly awful jokey exchange with the announcer before prizes that the contestants are playing for are announced.

It should replace waterboarding at Gitmo.

Here’s the thing that probably makes it even more unbearable: Grandma is a little hard of hearing, so the volume has to be up. Way up. Hear it from down the block up.

I’m trying to stay social given the circumstances, but I’m finding it too much to take. I wind up doing exactly what I tell my kids not to do: going in my room, closing the door and shutting out the world.

Or at least lowering the volume on it.