Wheels, Cogs, Social Workers

A few months ago, Der Ex and I went through yet another round of child support adjustment. While no more or less acrimonious than the last time, at least it was concluded. Or so I had thought. It had taken a while to complete, and was back-dated, to I owed some back child support to Yamaarashi-chan.

I called my child support worker. Cog In The Machine told me that he can't really tell me how much I'm in arrears for because he hadn't gotten the paperwork from the court and I would have to mail it or fax it to him. I did. I call him three days later. Cog informs me that they have received Der Ex's copy of the court order and it'll be processed and I'll be notified of my arrears shortly. Sounds fair.

A month goes by. Not only was the court ordered amount not reflected in the electronic deduction from my bank account, but I found a frantic message on my answersing machine from Cog telling me that I'm now deep in arrears and they'll begin collection shortly.

What the fuck?

I called Cog In The Machine back and he told me that the court order was "not sufficient," that I had to authorize the support enforcement office to remove more from my account by electronic transfer than was previously being done. I had to send a letter with my name, my bank account number, the child support case number, and my signature to the home office at the state capitol. I could also, he told me, pay Der Ex the arrears directly if I wanted. Fine, I do that.

A month goes by. Again, the amount removed from my account is wrong. Again, there's a frantic message on my answering machine, this time from someone I had never heard before. I call back the number listed and learn from a recorded message that the Cogs have been rearranged and it's likely I have a new Cog In The Machine. Sure enough, I do. New Cog has a deep southern accent and is desperately trying not to upset me, to reassure me, to calm me down, to use too many freakin' words when what I really want is to know, by the numbers, the steps needed to correct the problem. She keeps treating me like I'm pissed off and ready to explode when, really, I'm just amused; I understand bureacracy, there's nothing to be done about it over the phone, I just want to deal with the problem.

New Cog harangues me that paying Der Ex directly is a violation of policy because that means it might get recorded wrong and what if Der Ex chose not to report it. (What about this cancelled check I have from her?) She then tells me that the letter is not sufficient, "We have a form you need to fill out." Fine. I can't get a copy over the Internet, she'll have to mail me one. Fine.

Then she drops the bombshell. "I"m afraid your account has been sent to collection. According to our records, you are currently in arrears."

I'm dumbfounded. I paid Der Ex with a check. I saw that money leave my account. I had the cancelled check. "How much am I in arrears by?"

New Cog says, "Fifty-seven cents."

At this point, I realize I'm living in a certain Terry Gilliam movie. My account was sent to a collection agency for fifty-seven cents? I had forgotten how much I owed in small change, so the check to Der Ex was just the dollar amount. They sent me to collection over that?

Still, going nuclear at this point would have accomplished nothing and satisfied no one, but it's shocking just how unbelievably stupid the system can get. I have to cut a check for the arrears and the missing difference; I'm tempted to send them two checks, but that would just harass some other poor schmoe and take more time and that's just tax money I'd be spending on my petty revenge.

I just thanked New Cog In The Machine, hung up, called my lawyer, had a ten-minute talk about options at this point. The only thing she could offer was a letter asking that any credit record consequences of the Fifty-Seven Cent Incident be countered immediately by the bureacracy. But first I would have to show the harm, so we'll be ordering a credit report soon.

Wrist Update

I went to receive a second opinion yesterday regarding my wrists. I think he was a little surprised when I described to him the amount of time in front of the keyboard and how this was a quality of life issue. I wouldn't be surrendering my keyboard anytime soon.

He ran me through a collection of flexion and extension maneuvers to determine if there was anything else underlying the pain in my wrists, and he determined that there wasn't anything out of whack with my neck or back, things that would lead to an improper hang of the right arm and shoulder, because I sometimes have stabbing pains under the scapula and a burning sensation in the upper right bicep. He said I have "the neck of a girl." Apparently, men can't turn or flex their necks as much as women can, but mine is an exception, even more flexible than most womens'.

He was able to show me where in the right arm the initial signs of carpal tunnel syndrome could be found. There is a distinctive feel to the carpal tunnel when it's tapped, and it should feel solid. Mine didn't. They felt hollow. They echoed a little bit. My family physician hadn't known about that, and had missed it in her diagnosis.

Still, he was able to tell me that, recovery-wise, my first physician had been more or less correct: knock off the video games, ergo the desktop, get a smaller keyboard for my home (I have one of those early MS Natural keyboards, the ultra-wide monster that takes up the entire keyboard tray) so I have room for the mouse nearer to my hand.

He also told me to find a swimming pool. I had been on the varsity swim team in high school, fastest guy in the school-- third fastest in the state of Pennsylvania, 1983... man, were my schoolmates pissed when I decided for my senior year to quit getting up at 5am and eat a ton of protein just to swallow a gallon of chlorine before "breakfast" proper, and chose to play Ultimate Frisbee instead. All of the muscles in my upper torso were well-massed, but atrophied. My body has had no reason to remove all that muscle fiber, but it's now undeveloped. It's trying to support itself and my regular activities as a typist, and that's why I get upper shoulder pains after a long day. So, a half-hour of laps, three times a week, if I can manage it.

Lemming, courtesy Riverheart

Well, duh. Correct on all counts.

( To what magical order do I belong? )

Germs are your friends

About a year ago, a press release touted the use of genetically modified bacteria to colonize your mouth and prevent caries, or tooth decay. The idea was that large doses of the usual suspects, modified to not cause damage, would drive out any colonies of the original form. Another idea was to modify the lactobacillus family so that you'd get antibacterial attacks on S. mutans, the bacteria that causes most caries.

Now, scientists have modified lactobacillus to visit the other end of your anatomy in a move to make women immune to HIV The idea seems simple enough: lactobacillus lives there naturally and can be engineered to exude the CD4 protein, thus giving the HIV protien coat something useless to express upon and make it ineffective at reaching actual human cells and infecting them. Even more interesting, lactobacillus can be freeze-dried into a portable suppository stable at room temperature and effective for up to a year in that condition.

The current writing plans.

Now, that's the music I should have had for my post about my encounters with the Cogs In The Machine. Good old Zevon. He'll be missed.

Warning: If you are a fan of the Journal Entries or any of my fiction, and do not want spoilers, do not read any further. Seriously.

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