I am torn. I aspire to be a coffee snob, but I’m finding that some of the equipment is a little too pricey. My first steps to snobbery weren’t too expensive… whole bean instead of ground, a once forgotten coffee (blade) grinder received as a wedding gift, and a French press.

I’ve come a long way from coffee flavored, instant chocolate milk (General Foods International Coffees).

The next step is perfecting the grind… and that’s the problem. Good grinders cost a mint. I’ve read that the key to a good, consistent brew is a good, consistent grind – something that isn’t possible with those food processors masquerading as coffee grinders. I see the results every morning. No matter what I do, the grind is a mixed bag… some beans chopped up to the consistency of flour, other beans untouched. Burr grinders are supposed to be much better… with opposing surfaces which pulverize the beans instead of chopping them up. You can set the distance between the surfaces in order to control the kind of grind you want (coarse for the french press, fine for the auto-drip). I’m toying with picking up a cheap hand crank model, but I hear it takes more effort than I’m willing to spend (at six in the morning) to produce just one cup of coffee. I’ve found lots of less expensive burr grinders (re: less than three significant digits to the left of the decimal point on the price), but the reviews are consistently mixed.

I’ve got my eye on an inexpensive Cuisinart at Amazon, whose reviews are a little less mixed, but I’m still a little leery. Tearing open the long awaited box from Amazon, grinding up some coffee, and getting another bad grind would be more disappointment than I could handle right now.

It’s a good thing I haven’t acquired a taste for espresso. Those things look more complicated than the main engines on the space shuttle.

One of the must see stops on any trip to Florida is The Kennedy Space Center. We’re lucky enough that it’s only a quick trip to the other coast…. This is one of the main engines that flew on the maiden flight of Challenger in 1983. Among it’s 15 flights was the mission that launched the Hubble Space Telescope. I only wish I could have gotten a less obstructed shot.

My wife thinks I’m being silly.

But that’s not news.

My latest adventure down the road to lunacy involves my alma mater: The University of Florida. It was about mid-April when I received my very first solicitation for money.

“Can we count on your donation of $1000?”

If I had been drinking it would have shot from my nose in a fountain of incredulity.

“Ah, no.”

“Can we count on your donation of $500?”

“You’re still cold, but your getting warmer.”

“How about $250?”

“Would you take $100?”

And there it was. I had agreed to send my old school; the place that shaped me into the man I’ve become (don’t laugh) $100. About a week later I got the letter in the mail with my pledge card and the address to send the money. Like everything else that comes in the mail asking for money, it sat on my desk for the customary one week waiting period. It was during that week that I found out I had Leukemia, and I never sent that check.

This was my dirty secret for several weeks. Cheryl didn’t know that I’d agreed to give UF money, but I thought it was something important to do. Maybe I’m naive, but I thought I owed UF something. It was an important part of my life and I felt like I needed to give something back – even if no one but me noticed. Then Cheryl noticed the calls I was ignoring on my phone. It was area code 352… Gainesville, Florida… UF. I couldn’t face them. We were blowing money left and right to assuage my medical fears, the savings took a hit, and suddenly $100 seemed like a lot of money again.

Finally, one night not long ago, I told Cheryl my deep, dark, secret.

You know what she did?

She laughed at me.

“John, just tell them you got really sick, you were in the hospital, and you’ve been out of work for over a month. I think they might understand.”

I still haven’t answered any calls from 352.

What can I say? I hate disappointing people… even people who’re probably making 500 calls a day and couldn’t care less what I have to say. Maybe if they call tomorrow I’ll answer, but I’ll still feel a little dirty.

Everyone says I should indulge myself while I’m in the hospital. If only they knew. Armed with a credit card number and a wi-fi connection I’ve been a shareware paying, upgrade buying, web host upgrading mad spender.

And the madness doesn’t end there. In between bouts of fever, chills, and pain I could be resting up. Instead I’ve undertaken a huge project to reorganize my genealogy data, and a slightly smaller project to reconfigure the html files over at mykauffman.com for a new server.

I probably could have just changed a server setting instead, but what fun is that?

Thats right friends, no play on words is to lame; we’re officially poor. Late last week we employed a classic strategy for budget busting known as “roofing.” Any time you employ someone to perform strenuous labor in uncomfortable circumstances AND you involve a primary component of the structure of your house… you’re likely to end up hosed. What’s more, like the garden variety, there are several ways you can take your hosing… the traditional “soaking” method or the lashing technique are but two examples. Either way your bound to feel ill afterwards.

I don’t know about you, but I’m about to throw my hose away. Not only is it harbinger of memories best forgotten, but everywhere it goes growing grass follows. Frankly, I’m surprised we’ve kept it around this long. I really hate to mow the grass.

On a high note: I took in a most excellent hockey game Saturday night. Had it come later in the season, with graver consequences hanging in the balance, it might have been the best live hockey experience of my sheltered existence. And on a relieved note, we made a nice trip to see Cheryl’s family in Orlando. As astute readers can attest, I don’t normally relish an opportunity to see our old home town, but Sunday’s road trip wasn’t bad at all. It may not sound like much, but there’s nothing wrong with a weekend that’s not bad.

**Author’s note: this entry was submitted in it’s entirety without proofing or editing of any kind. Just for kicks, I turned off the spell check too. (Boy we’re really having fun now!)

I’ve come to the point in my week when our stores of name-brand products have run dry. I’m almost exclusively down to the generic alternatives I bought on Friday, following my most recent fiscal epiphany. First let me say that anyone who claims generic tastes the same as brand either never tried both, is lying, or is incapable of picking sugar out of a line-up of artificial sweeteners. The difference in taste is inescapable… to my persnickety palate anyway. However, that’s not really the point, is it? Just because something tastes different doesn’t mean it’s better or worse, and this is the crux of the issue. Has switching to generic brand foods affected my quality of life?

I’m not sure yet; and therein lies the rub on this entry… its not really much of an update if I don’t have anything new to say, is it?

I’ve got great news! I just saved a bunch of money on my grocery bill!

I used to be a grocery snob. You know the type, those people who fall for the raz-mataz of a “name brand.” I’d go grocery shopping and look down my long, anglo-germanic nose at “those people” with the store labels in their cart. Well a funny thing happened on my way to insolvency… I decided to try and save a little money.

There are several ways to solve a budget problem:
1. increase income;
2. decrease expenses; or,
3. die.

I’m a happy-go-lucky civil servant, so that rules out two options…

So I decided to take a looksie and see where my budget could stand some shaving. As it turns out groceries are one of our biggest monthly expenses; and somewhere between gluttony and malnutrition there’s some wiggle room. So I went to the store this afternoon and set aside my petty bias and had my self a generic brand ho-down. It wasn’t until I was checking out that I noticed that my cart looked like something out of science fiction. Where else do you see a collection of different kinds of food in nearly identical packaging and labeling. All I could think of were those scenes from Lost where they discover caches of Dharma Initiative food stuff, with the identical, generic black and white labels. So far so good though, I did save some money.

Now we just have to see if the stuff is edible.

… a dead one, as it turns out. Perhaps this was a little heavenly payback for mocking a well-meaning gift giver.

Let me explain…
It all started in Adam’s bedroom. It smelled bad, but that’s not completely unexpected considering Adam is only one year old. All manner of smelly stuff “happens” in there, so the smell was kind of ignored for a couple of days. Well not exactly ignored… the nose can be a powerful and constant reminder, but let’s just say that a bad smell in Adam’s room fit perfectly with my world view. On day three the bouquet started to take on a hint of decay. That’s when I decided to look into modes of exterior entry for our attic – and found one near Adam’s room. A quick trip to the far corners of our attic produced a much more powerful olfactory response, but no source.

That’s when we called our exterminator.

We set an appointment for the next day, and arranged for Cheryl’s father to be present to let him in.

Fast forward to yesterday evening. I got a call from Cheryl’s mother, saying the exterminator came and couldn’t find the smell. “Did he go up in the attic?” I asked. “Yes, but he didn’t smell anything.” It was fate that put me on the road to my allergist at that moment, right at the intersection where I would normally turn off to go home. Faster than you can say, “stall him,” I was homeward bound.

Exterminator: “Well sir, I went up in your attic and I couldn’t smell anything, certainly nothing compared to the smell in your son’s room. That’s why I think it must have fallen into one of the walls. The smell is obviously lower, not higher, so it can’t be in your attic. If it’s in your walls then we won’t be able to help you.”

Me: “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be argumentative, but that doesn’t fit with my experience yesterday evening. The smell was much worse in the attic that in my son’s room. If I go up there this evening, after you’ve left, and it’s not how you’ve just described it I’m going to be REALLY upset.”

Exterminator: “Well I’ll go up there with you right now if you want.”

Me: “Sure, let’s go.”

Exterminator (surprised and disappointed, heads over to the attic access door and opens it up): “You see, if there was a dead animal in your attic you’d be overcome with the odor as soon as I opened the door. I don’t smell anything right now.”

Me (after we’ve crawled up into the attic and positioned ourselves over Adam’s room): “This is where I smelled it. Can you smell it?”

Exterminator: “Here it is right here.”

Me (close to producing more fuel for the olfactory fire): “Sorry, I’ve gotta go.”

Believe it or not, I try not to be smug; but when someone basically calls me a liar I’ve got to say something. I wonder if the guy even went up in the attic before I got there. My guess is he stuck his nose up through the door and called it a day. I almost felt bad for the guy when he found the dead animal, despite his earlier assertions. If I really thought he’d done his job before I goaded him into doing it, I would.

Here’s the one thing that gives me pause… as it turns out I was probably standing over the darn thing the night before… and I didn’t find it either. It’s a lot easier to feel superior when you’re not just as inept as the next guy. What’s even worse is that I have to relearn this lesson over and over again.

It turns out perspective and ego can be a perilous combination.

“Hello, Mr. Kauffman? This is (censored) from (my HMO). I just wanted to give you a call to let you know that we’ve resolved the issue with your daughter’s PCP (primary care physician). The claim submitted in October 2004 will be resolved, and you will not be responsible for any charges previously billed by the PCP.”

“You mean the 10/1, 10/2, 10/3, and 10/5 claims that I called about last week; I believe it was 11/28 of this year?”

“I don’t have the exact dates in front of me. I just thought I would give you a call on my break to let you know the issue has been resolved.”

“But you think ALL of the claims from October 2004 will be resolved? What about the other dates that I was billed for? Specifically, I’m referring to the claims denied for July 2002, March 2005 and May 2005?”

“Sir, you didn’t ask us to check on any dates besides the October 2004 claim.”

“Au contraire, mon fraire. Claim… S. That’s CLAIMS… as in plural. When I called on 11/28 I noticed, and was concerned, that the representative was focused on 10/04. I asked about four claims for October 2004; PLUS, on three separate occasions I clarified with your representative that the bill from the PCP listed three dates of service OTHER than October 2004 – specifically: July 2002, March 2005, and May 2005. I see that my efforts were in vain.”

“Sir, my break is over. I’ve got to get back to the phones.”

Click.

Talking to my insurance company on the phone has proven to be an excellent source of energy. Now I just have to find a constructive outlet for that energy.

Health insurance, billing departments, complaint resolution offices, and the automated phone answering system… horsemen of the apocalypse or God’s warning shot across the bow of today’s later day ark of bureaucracy and civilization?

All I know is that I don’t want to pay $800 for services that were supposed to be covered by my health insurance provider.

See if this sounds eerily familiar… your doctor sends you a bill for services your health insurance provider (HIP) denied coverage. You call your HIP and verify that these kinds of services are normally covered; but, they tell you your doctor never submitted the claim. You call your doctor and they tell you they did. You call back your HIP and they tell you your doctor didn’t. You call back your doctor for proof they submitted the claim, and they tell you it was submitted electronically… or in other words, fat chance getting your proof. You ask to speak to a supervisor, and they tell you she’ll call you back. A week later you get that call in the evening, at dinner time, at the precise moment your one year old son starts tossing a grand fit, whilst in the throes of hunger. The supervisor assures you she will have someone call your HIP and get things all straightened out… and that if she has any problems she’ll be back in touch. When she doesn’t get back in touch in two weeks, you become hopeful… until you get another bill in the mail for $800. So you call your HIP with the specifics of the bill (again), and they advise you they’ll forward the information to their complaint resolution office, who will respond in two weeks with their results.

My guess is there’s some research out there which suggests “two weeks” is the optimum answer to give to a complaining customer. It’s not enough time to seem like NEVER to the customer (like three months would), while still giving a fair chunk of time to actually do something; and, (most importantly) it gives the customer plenty of time to forget the complaint in the first place. What I’d like to know is if they actually intend to be DONE in two weeks, or if they’re giving a research based answer of placation. In either case, I’ve got my calendar marked. Maybe this is one case where business should run more like a government?

No, I’m not over doing it. My little buddy made it out of surgery this afternoon and sped right through recovery. In fact, he’s out playing right now. If you really must know, he’s playing INXS.

That’s right, this is another iPod post.

I can’t tell you how crushed I was when I thought he was dead. It makes it all the more joyous to see him resurrected. I’m so giddy I’m having visions of hacking my way back in for a little homemade upgrade.

Can you say forty gigabytes? She-it, maybe even 60!