The Cost of Clean Clothing

It holds about a third of what the old washer did. So we have to do smaller loads. Clyde thinks it's cute. It looks like R2D2.


Our washer died.

It was a cute little European model, a combination washer and dryer. It was a good washer. A terrible dryer. But it got the clothes clean.

It looked smart and efficient tucked under the counter in our kitchen.

It came with the house. It was in fact, one of the few things that didn't contribute to that bottomless money pit.

There are some things I've refused to do in my adulthood: mow the lawn, shovel snow, and drag my dirty clothes out to a public place where I have to shove quarters into a machine that God only knows in who has washed God only knows what.  So naturally, when the washer died, I jumped on line to see what new washers were available that would fit under our counter.

Buying the same model we had before turned out to be a little on the pricey side, so I looked around and settled on a less expensive portable washer.

Clyde and I live modestly but comfortably. We don't have a lot of debt. We eat out and travel. But our house is small. We don't drive fancy cars. And we don't waste money on deluxe washers.

Turns out this new little washer is too small to to reach the kitchen plumbing. It has to be dragged into the bathroom, hooked up to that sink, and drained into the bathtub. But it fits under the counter and it was cheap.

It is a lot smaller than I expected. It holds about a third of what the old washer did. So we have to do smaller loads. Clyde thinks it's cute. It looks like R2D2. It took a few days to figure out exactly how to hook it to the sink - turns out we didn't have the right attachment for the faucet. I went to Home Depot and came home with the wrong size. Don't ever send me to Home Depot. I'm a disaster at Home Depot.

The laundry was piling up.

Clyde managed to find the right size faucet attachment at McGuckin's Hardware in Boulder.

After much trial and error, I was finally able to hook up the new machine. I plugged it in. I attached one end of the hose to the sink and the other end to the little washer. I set the program to wash, rinse, and spin. I turned on the faucet. Water shot me in the face, blasted the wall, the shower curtain, and the floor.

I tightened the hose. Tighter. Tighter. Finally, a little water dribbled into the washer. My shirt was soaked.

Tighter, tighter.  My finger started to bleed.

So it turns out the laundromat isn't so bad. You can put a 20 into a machine that churns out a whole bunch of quarters. The washers and dryers are huge so you can do a lot of clothes at once. The other customers are mostly nice. For extra convenience, there's an "all natural 'green' medicinal and recreational health clinic" next door. For those of you who don't live in Colorado, that means it's a marijuana shop.

R2D2 remains under the counter for emergencies. If you cover the sink and the hose with a towel while you use it, water doesn't spray all over the place. I'm still looking for ways to make it better. I might go over to Home Depot and see if they have a better hose.

I Had a Casa Bonita Poster Over My Bed

When 90% of all the other boys my age had Farrah Fawcett above their beds, I had a poster of the divers at Casa Bonita.

My family thought I was interested in diving.

For you readers who may be too young, Farrah Fawcett was the arguably the most famous sex symbol of the 1970s. The poster of Farrah lounging in her red one piece graced the bedroom wall of every (straight) pubescent teenage boy of that era.  With her nipple so quietly poking out, her famously feathered blond hair (many girls at my school had that same style), enormous white smile, one leg up and the other down, Farrah no doubt caused a lot bedroom doors to close tight for a few minutes every evening in those days.

I, on the other hand, had a poster of the perfectly toned, speedo clad male divers poised over the waterfall at Denver's famous Casa Bonita.

I had nothing against Farrah.  I watched Charlies Angels, the TV show that made her famous. But I preferred Kate Jackson - the smarter angel. I have to admit, I was more into the cars they were driving.

To call Casa Bonita a restaurant is misleading. It's more of a theme park. To walk inside the old-world
Spanish colonial style tower topped villa on West Colfax is to enter another world. You find yourself in a "Mexican" village festooned with palm trees, caves, walking paths, and right in the middle, a huge waterfall plunging into a deep green pool. It's really quite amazing.

Locals look down their noses at Casa Bonita. It's true - the food isn't very good. There are approximately 1 million places in metro Denver where you can go for better Mexican food.

The exception is the sopapillas at the end of the meal. When you put the flag up at your table, a basket of hot, fresh, doughy, slightly sweetened pastries appears. You take one, tear it in half, pour honey inside, and let it melt in your mouth. When you want more, just raise the flag - it's all you can eat.

But you don't go to Casa Bonita for the food. You go to see the waterfall, Black Bart's cave, the roving mariachi singers, and of course, the divers.

When Casa Bonita opened in the mid 1970s, I was just becoming aware of my sexuality. While I
didn't self-identify as gay until 1980, I REALLY liked the divers at Casa Bonita years before. Back then, they were all male and because it was the 70s, they all wore skimpy speedos. During one of my family's occasional trips to Denver, after I observed their perfect forms fly gracefully into the emerald water, I made a beeline for the gift shop to purchase the poster, and my interest in diving commenced.

On a visit years later, I noted that young women had joined the ranks of divers. The grace and skill were the same, but something was missing - a little charge, a bit of fantasy.  Plus, I realized the divers were all probably 16 years old. No thanks! At least I could put the flag up for more sopapillas.

Surviving the Diet of the 1970s

I thought orange juice and Tang, a sugary drink made from dusty yellow powder, were the same thing until I was in high school. Of course Tang was marketed as what the astronauts drank, so that made it ok.

A New York Strip, perfectly grilled, delicately sliced into a bite sized morsel with a sharp knife, a tiny drop of peppercorn sauce quivering on the surface as I lift it to my mouth with a fork, juicy flavor flowing around my tongue, making me reluctant to swallow as it melts away.

That was the 50 dollar steak I had the other night. It was fantastic.

I didn't have a good steak until well into my 20s. In my experience, steak was always fatty and required endless chewing before you could swallow it. I'd heard it could be grilled, but my mother always prepared it in a frying pan. I don't think we even had a grill in my childhood home.

My family was pretty well off. We had the biggest house on the street. We had 3 cars. We  took nice vacations with our motor home and spent culturally uplifting weekends in the city. We had a swimming pool in the back yard. My siblings and I expected to be sent to college. We didn't show off, but we were clearly not poor.

So it baffled us that Mom scrimped and saved pennies as if we were still in the Great Depression. We existed on the cheapest cuts of meat and the lowest quality store brand instant foods. The milk we drank as children was made from powder in a box. It was terrible. I hate drinking milk to this day, and will only put Vitamin D whole milk on my cereal. I thought orange juice and Tang, a sugary drink made from dusty yellow powder, were the same thing until I was in high school. Of course Tang was marketed as what the astronauts drank, so that made it ok.

I don't think it was just my mom. In the 1970s, between inflation and middle class mothers going to work outside the home, nutrition was a secondary consideration compared to saving money and saving time.

Vegetables? Always canned. I didn't set my eyes upon fresh asparagus until I was in college. Green beans were soft and squishy as were peas. Exotic vegetables were the mushy "Chinese" variety in the can of chow mien purchased from the ethnic shelf at the grocery store.  I'll never forget my first water chestnut.

Today's moms would shudder at the nutritional value of what we ate as children: sugar coated cereals (preferably generic), lifeless white iceberg lettuce dressed up with fake bacon bits and Nebraska's famous Dorothy Lynch salad dressing, as much Kool-Aid as we could drink (in place of expensive carbonated sodas), dry Hydrox cookies (cheaper than Oreos), and sandwiches made from big yellow blocks of Velveeta imitation cheese-like substance along with Miracle Whip spread (not mayonnaise) and the store's cheapest (whitest) bread.

For the record, there was no such thing as "gluten free." We'd never heard of a Vegan. Vegetarians were hippies that lived out in far away California.

It's not like we weren't cared for. Mom made sure we had 3 solid meals a day. We never missed a breakfast, lunch, or dinner. We'd even get a special treat every now and then. For example, we'd occasionally get a Tony's frozen pizza with bits of pepperoni or something that passed for sausage on top.

If Mom needed a break, Dad would pick up a bag of McDonalds hamburgers and fries. He never got cokes though - we saved money by washing those fries down with Kool-Aid or Tang.

I'm a little surprised that obesity rates are higher now. That probably has to do with the amount of moving around that kids did then compared to now. There were only 3 channels on the TV. We didn't have computers and iPhones so we had time to go outside and run off all that fat and sugar.

Slogging Through the Trump Era

"The United Corporations of America exploit ignorant citizens, largely those who are economically disadvantaged because of those same pro-corporate policies, with propaganda that would shock even George Orwell."

Regular readers of Billsweek have commented that postings have been few and far between. I apologize for neglecting this space, allowing mindless drivel to wash up in its wake on Facebook and in other media.

I like to inject a little humor into these posts, or at least something to think about. But it's been hard to work up the gumption to do that. It's been a depressing year.

The beginning, and it's only the beginning, of the Trump era has left many of us worn out. There are so many things wrong with the country that it's hard to know what to focus on. Every day brings another low point - often lower than the one from the day before. It seems the Republican strategy is to bombard us with outrageousness to the extent that while we're still reeling from yesterday's disaster, they throw another one at us today. We are kept running from protest to protest so we'll be too busy to take in the bigger picture of what they are really doing, which is dismantling the institutions of our democracy that protect civil rights, provide a safety net for the poor, and care for the sick. All the while, they cede more and more power to big business, benefiting only the extremely wealthy and weakening the middle class.

The United Corporations of America exploit ignorant citizens, largely those who are economically disadvantaged because of those same pro-corporate policies, with propaganda (via Fox News and other right wing media) that would shock even George Orwell. The media that our president calls fake news is not the fake news that endangers us, but his favorite program, Fox and Friends, the epitome of fake news. It's enough to make your head spin.

I think what would shock Orwell the most is that the citizenry swallows their propaganda hook, line, and sinker not at the point of a gun, but willingly and freely, drunk on credit fueled consumerism and vapid social media and, yes, fake news.

It's depressing.

Personally, I've had a tough year medically as well, and if politics weren't enough, my energy has been drained by health insurance paperwork, navigating doctors' office bureaucracies, and visits to Rose Medical Center - not to mention the medical conditions themselves.

In short: a bout with pneumonia early in the year uncovered an arterial blockage which led to a stent in my right main artery and a permanent diagnosis of heart disease. Several weeks of cardio-therapy ended just in time for a skin cancer scare which resulted in 2 separate surgeries. The cancer was not the life-threatening terminal kind, but was uncomfortable and inconvenient all the same. These were in addition to my other, pre-existing chronic illnesses which only complicated things with potential drug interactions and a spiderweb of communications between doctors, if I could manage to get them to communicate. All of this was expensive too, and I have health insurance.

Luckily, I have a good job and money in the bank. I have a loving husband and a warm home. I get to travel and have experiences that many others can't. I have the opportunity to serve my community through my church and in other ways.

The challenge is to keep the depressing stuff in perspective and to use the good stuff to slog forward so the bad stuff doesn't stop me. Because if I stop, "they" win. And we can't have that.

Defying the Insurance Company Actuarial Tables

This has not been my year, medically speaking.

Of course, it could have been worse. I'm not dead yet.

It started right at the beginning in January. As I wheezed my way onto the examination table, the doctor listened to my lungs, diagnosed pneumonia, and took an extra listen to my heart. Noticing some swelling around my ankles (edema) and a somewhat alarming high blood pressure, he asked if I would mind if he did an EKG as well. In my feverish stupor, I was barely aware of what he was doing, let alone in any position to argue or question.

After a typically long recovery from pneumonia, two visits to a cardiologist (and all of the delightful related experiences dealing with insurance companies, lengthy referral processes, and lackadaisical doctors' office staff who didn't give a shit about whether my life was in danger), I ended up in the Rose Medical Center Cardiology Unit where it was discovered that my major left artery was 80% blocked.

No wonder I was always winded after climbing the stairs to my office on the second floor. I just thought I was in terrible shape. I was, of course, but anyway ...

Major heart attack and possible sudden death averted, a stent was inserted and I was prescribed several weeks of cardiac rehabilitation which turned out to be three visits to the hospital per week where nurses hook you up to an EKG machine and take your blood pressure while you exercise. Some of the nurses have extra training in torture as they push you to exercise harder and harder while criticizing your diet and general lifestyle.

By the end of the summer, however, I was able to bound up the stairs to my office without running out of breath. Yay!

Thinking that everything was under control and that perhaps I would survive my 50s after all, I woke up one night to discover that a mole on my back had decided to erupt in a bloody mess. Naturally this happened on a Friday so I had all weekend to worry about it before my doctor's office opened Monday morning. But I was on that familiar exam table by Monday afternoon and the results of the biopsy came back on Thursday - so I only needed to push away "worst case scenario" trains of thought (chemo, end of life directives, death ...) for four days.

The results were not benign, but neither were they of the terminal variety. It was basal cell carcinoma, a slow growing skin cancer that is merely annoying, not fatal. It did, however, require minor outpatient surgery, which I had on Friday. There is now a big crater in my back which because I can't reach it, Clyde has to clean and bandage twice a day. This is the part of marriage that they don't show you in the bridal magazines.

So I'm back to assuming I'll make it through my 50s, though I keep imagining the insurance company's actuarial tables which must show my ever decreasing predicted life span.

I realize that 100 years ago, and in many other parts of the world today, I wouldn't have survived long enough to even have these problems. Many men got into their 50s, had heart attacks, and died. I sometimes try to remind myself that beyond a certain point, every day is gravy and that I should be thankful for it. I have things pretty good, after all: happily married, good home, comfortable life.

I keep remembering my dad who because of a heart condition, was given six months to live around the age of 70. He was 86 when he died. I take after him in a few other ways, so maybe I can look forward to a long life in spite of some health issues.

What made the solar eclipse a life changing experience?

It was said by some to be life changing.

"I'm not a religious person," more than one individual was heard to say about a past solar eclipse. "But my first was a spiritual experience. It changed my life."

I'd hate to take that away from someone.  It certainly is an unusual experience. But life changing? I guess I feel like if you understand it - that the moon comes between Earth and the sun, causing a shadow resulting in darkness over a narrow line across our planet's surface - why should it change your life?

We were a little disappointed in the eclipse this week. The hassle of the crowds and the traffic kept us a few miles out of the line of totality, so we ended up in a spot where there was two percent sunlight. So it wasn't completely dark where we were. We got to see the eclipse using our special glasses, which was great, and we observed a twilightish glow on the horizon, a noticeable change in temperature, and a resulting cool breeze, but we missed the total darkness and starlit sky that we'd anticipated. It was hardly life changing for us.

If you were lucky enough to experience the totality and it changed your life, well, good for you.

I did appreciate the eclipse experience. Even where we were, slightly out of the line of totality, people gathered by the shores of Lake Yellowstone with their lawn chairs and special eclipse glasses. Park rangers handed out educational materials and explained what was going on and what to expect (it turns out, they too were a little overly optimistic about seeing stars, planets, and constellations). Park visitors, along with most Americans, were united by the anticipation of such an unusual event. No one denied the science that predicted what was going to happen. Republicans and Democrats temporarily put aside their differences to marvel at what was going on in the sky. People flocked to social media to share one experience - not another crazy speech by the President, but a wonder of nature that we could all agree was kind of amazing (if not universally life changing).

The next day, things went back to normal. We left Yellowstone and got back into a place with a good Internet connection. We learned that the President gave probably the most unhinged speech yet. Life on Earth returned to normal.

But the eclipse was a nice break, wasn't it?

Guess How Much My Recent Heart Procedure Cost

The whole procedure took less than an hour. It prevented what could have been a major heart attack.

I recently had a stent put in an artery near my heart. This stent opened up the artery which was clogged so that blood could once again freely flow through. I was in the hospital for one day, not overnight. A tube was inserted in my wrist, directed through arteries up to my heart where a camera took a look at what was going on and installed the stent.

I was in recovery for a few hours after that. I am in cardiac rehabilitation for three months.

There is no doubt that it was a remarkable procedure. You could even say that it was a miracle of modern medicine. You could argue that it prolonged my life for many years.

Here's a fact that you can't argue with: the cost of having this done was over $74,000.

Here are my thoughts after seeing that figure on my insurance claim:

• I'm lucky I have health insurance through my employer.
• I'm lucky I could swing the nearly $2,000 copayment.
• If I didn't have insurance I would have been financially wiped out by this one, single medical event because in the United States, not everyone has the right to health care.
• If I didn't have insurance, I probably would have opted not to have this procedure done. I would have taken my chances, risking a heart attack or a stroke later on.
• If I didn't have insurance, I would have ended up in an emergency room with a heart attack or a stroke, leading to my own bankruptcy, and/or costing someone (either taxpayers through public subsidies or the hospital resulting in higher health costs for everyone who can pay) much more than if I had been able to receive the less expensive earlier treatment in the first place.

I still don't know what the cardiac rehabilitation is costing. But I think it's worth it because it will help prevent future cardiac events. Fortunately, I'm in a position where I can work my schedule around the three times a week appointments, and I'm fairly certain I'll be able to afford the co-payments. 

But I've said it before and I'll say it again: I don't know what poor people are supposed to do. Just get sick and die I guess.