Damn the Man

This is the saga of J's worker's comp claim.  Or, non-claim, as it turns out.

Some time in mid-August or early September, J came home from work and said, "I think I got a hernia at work today?"

Being the calm, rational one, I shrieked, "WHAT??"

"Yeah.  I was lifting a big spool of cable and I felt something pop."

"So what did you do?  Did you report it to your foreman?"

"Yeah."

"Well??? What did he say???"

"He said, 'not on my fucking job, you didn't get hurt!'"

"What??  He can't do that.  That's illegal.  This is a worker's comp claim, you need to report it."

"I tried, but he refused to accept it."

"Well, he can't do that.  You need to talk to his supervisor, or call the main office, or something like that.  You can't just let it go."

"If I do that I'll get fired."

My head was about to explode right off my body at this point.  "They can't fire you for submitting a workers comp claim.  There are laws against it!"

"Baby, they do it all the time."

I fumed.  "You cannot let them get away with it.  You have to report this."

Long story short, he was intimidated by his foreman's attitude, didn't report it (thought there were witnesses to both the injury and his efforts to tell the foreman), it got worse, and a month later, it hurt so much that he couldn't lift his tool pouch without excruciating pain.  So they sent him home and told him to go to the doctor, get it fixed and go on short term disability.

So he went to the doctor.  Who confirmed that he had a double hernia and sent him to a surgeon.  Who also confirmed that he had a double hernia and scheduled him for surgery.

But all along, I was confused.  It was a workplace injury.  Why wasn't it being covered by workers comp?  What the fuck was going on??

I wasn't the only one.  The administrator at the surgeon's office was confused as well, because workers comp is billed differently from other kinds of claims.  And if it was a workplace injury, it needed to go through workers comp.

So she called the HR people at J's company, who proceeded to yell at her.  Then they ran around trying to cover their tracks by intimidating the guys on the job -- the witnesses -- into giving statements casting doubt on J's version of things.

J, being totally non-confrontational and intimidated, didn't want to make waves.  He was perfectly happy to pursue the personal-insurance-and-short-term-disability route.  But the safety manager at his company, who was walking around talking about how he was going to "bury J in court," insisted on submitting the claim through workers comp.

Which denied the claim today.  Because it was a "your word vs. theirs" thing, according to the claims rep.

So we'll submit it through our own insurance and seek short term disability for the time he needs to take off of work to recover.  Which we were willing to do all along.  We can't afford to fight it, so whatever.

This is why my great-grandfather, the proud socialist, believed in labor unions and working for the rights of the working man.  Because he knew that without them, the working man has no power.  The Big Man will always find a way to bring the little man down.  I never really thought about it before I was married to a tradesman, but now I know.  In Hawaii, a very pro-union state, J would have been protected.  In Colorado, where the union has a very weak presence and there are no union jobs to be had, he's fucked.

It makes me so mad, I don't even know what to do but sit and stew.

Chabon on Obama

This is not a political blog. Though I am extremely interested in politics and obviously have opinions about what's going on in the election, there are so many others that write about it far, far more adroitly than I could possibly hope to, that I just leave it to them.

But on this Super Tuesday Eve, I feel compelled to provide this link to an essay about Barack Obama, written by Michael Chabon, my favorite author and a man whose brilliance with the written word is humbling and awe-inspiring.

Let's fix this mess we're in. Get out and vote tomorrow.

It's my policy to not do things I don't have to do

Yesterday was the last day of our lease on our old place. We scrubbed the place out this past weekend, and yesterday I went to drop off the keys. The property manager seemed very confused to see me there.

Her: Do you have a final inspection scheduled?

Me: No, nobody contacted me about one.

Her: Did you fill out a notice to vacate?

Me: No, the lease says no notice is required.

This seemed to confuse her even more.

Her: It's our policy to have people fill them out.

Me: Well, I didn't know that, and the lease doesn't require it, so I didn't.

Her: Would you be willing to fill one out now with your forwarding address and contact information?

Me: Sure.

She gave me a form which was attached to a multi-page document full of tiny print with detailed instructions on exactly how to clean out the apartment before vacating it and providing a schedule of charges in the event you haven't done a sufficient job. Like, "failure to treat for fleas and ticks if you have a pet -- $125"; "dirt on the counters -- $25." The list was extensive and totally unenforceable, in my humble legal opinion. The notice to vacate form had a series of boxes to initial indicating you had received the instructions and fee schedule such that, presumably, you agreed to be bound by them.

I filled out the form with my new address and phone number, but didn't initial any of the boxes, and I handed the form back to her and started to leave.

Her: Wait a minute! You need to initial these boxes.

Me: No, I'm not going to. I didn't receive any of this information before today, and in any event, it's not in the lease, so I didn't agree to it and it's not enforceable against me.

Her: But I'm giving you the documents today, so you can initial that you received them.

Me: No. Today is too late. I didn't receive them in advance.

Her: But you're getting them now.

Me: Look. If I initial these boxes, then that could be interpreted as some kind of acknowledgment on my part that I received the documents in advance and that I agreed to comply with all this stuff. And I didn't get it in advance -- I got it today, after I had already moved out. It's too late. I'm not initialling.

All of this may seem very tough on my part (my mother called me a "pistol"), but it was made infinitely easier by the fact that when we moved in, they gave us a special promotional deal in which we paid no security deposit, so they have nothing of mine that they can use as leverage. If they ask me for money, I'll tell them that I'll rewrite their leases and forms for whatever amount they're seeking, and we can walk away even.

Apparently, because I'm white, it makes me an asshole when I don't like people waking up my sick 2-month-old with illegal fireworks

I just had my first experience of being called a haole bitch and being told to go back to the mainland. I tell you, I'm finding Hawaii more and more charming every day.

What happened was this. For some reason, some people in my neighborhood feel compelled to set off fireworks every night. They usually start right after we have put Zeke to bed (around 7 pm), but they are sporadic and not big bright ones so it's hard to tell where they are coming from. But tonight, at 7:15, I heard some really loud ones, and saw a big red flash outside my window. Immediately after that, I heard Zeke, who has been suffering from a cold and therefore sleeping particularly badly, start to cry. So I went to his room and rocked him back to sleep. At around 7:30, I heard the fireworks again, and looking out the window I could see exactly where they were coming from. I ran downstairs and told Jason, "keep an ear out for the baby, I'm going to tear some ass." The fireworks (and they were huge) were coming from a couple of blocks over, and I ran over and found a huge group of people milling around in the street, having a bit of a house party around the fireworks. I walked up to the group and said, "could you stop with the fireworks, please? they're illegal and they keep waking up my baby." At which point, two women started walking towards me, in full head-shaking mode (as if to say, "oh no she di'int"), yelling, "oh, yah, haole bitch? why don't you say it to my face?" This confused me a bit, because as far as I could tell, I was saying it to her face, so I said, "I am saying it to your face. Stop setting off the fireworks." And she said, "well, you could say it nicely." So I said, "OK, fine. Would you please stop setting off the fireworks? In addition to being illegal and not allowed in this complex, it's waking up my baby and it's rude and inconsiderate." Then this big Samoan guy said, "oh yah, lady? if you don't like the idea why don't you just go back to the mainland?" I rolled my eyes, and contemplated explaining to him that setting off fireworks isn't an idea, it's an act, but this probably would have gone right over his head, so I just said, "Give me a break, dude." And then everyone started yelling and getting in my face, "oh no, you give us a break, bitch. Fuck you, bitch." So I turned around and said, "never mind. I'll just call the police." And I did. I also sent the security dude over there, and I'm reporting them to management, and since I have the addresses, they're all going to be fined. On the other hand, they don't know who I am or where I live, but if anyone bothers me, I'll just sic Jason on them, because he got a Bowflex for Christmas so he'll kick some ass for me.

Why my mom is the awesomest person I know

My mother works for the State Department, doing passport security and immigration type work. She was recently talking to some American business owners who were trying to get work visas for a bunch of Chinese workers they wanted to hire. They were complaining to her about the fact that sometimes there is a wait in the consular section at the American Embassy in China.

"We've heard some people have to wait up to two hours in the consular section. It's demeaning!"

She replied, "is it really any more demeaning than being told by your government how many children you can have, or what you can think, or where you can live, or what political party you can belong to? More demeaning than that?"

That's like one of those comebacks you think of an hour after the opportunity to say it has passed, and then you kick yourself for the rest of the day for not having thought of it sooner. Given the time, you can think of the best zinger in the world, but rare is the occasion when the inspiration and opportunity to deliver it coincide. My respect for her, which has always been considerable, is now in orbit.

Also, if the Chinese consider waiting for two hours to be an extraordinarily demeaning experience, then the DMV in China must be a magical, wonderful place.

The saga of the van, entering Week 3...

The idea of the used-car salesman as a slick scumbag lower than just about every other life form is not a new one, but up until now, I hadn't really had any experience with it. I've bought all of my cars used, but I got them from CarMax, where the price is fixed and the cars have all gone through a mandatory inspection/service system, plus you can get a warranty. So there's no haggling over the price, and there's a certain assurance that the car will be in proper working order. The sales all went like this: I looked for a car I wanted, found one online, called CarMax to let them know I was coming in to see it, checked out the car and took it for a test-drive, and bought it. Easy as pie.
Then Jason and I went and bought a crappy van from a used commercial van and truck dealer here. We knew we were getting a beater, but were willing to put some money into the thing to get it in good shape, because it was so inexpensive to begin with. I also got the dealer to throw in a free tune-up. This was on a Saturday. The salesguy (named Les -- his license plate says "GO LES" -- oy) assured us that it would be done in a couple of days, by Wednesday at the latest.
Well, he was wrong. After two weeks of "oh your van will be ready on Thursday nope whoops it'll be ready on Monday no sorry it'll be ready on Wednesday blah blah bloo blee" I called them and said, basically, "what the fuck?" The guy assured me he was doing his best, lied to me that he had offered Jason a loaner (he absolutely didn't), and told me that they were busy. I said, "That doesn't really help me. You've had the car for two weeks. It's a tune-up, not major repairs. I don't understand how a tune-up takes so long. You change the oil and the filter, check the spark plugs, check the belts and hoses, cap the fluids, and you're done." He said, in a tone like I was a complete moron, "fine, if that's the way you feel, it'll be ready this afternoon." "Fine." "Fine." Asshole.
So we went and picked up the van. It ran rough, and ate way too much gas, but we knew this and were prepared to spend some money getting it fixed up. Jason was happy -- he could toss his surfboard in the back, take the dog to the beach without worrying about getting sand all over my car's leather upholstery, drag his tools around.
Then the next day, Les called. "You need to bring the van back."
"Why?"
"Because we forgot to do the safety inspection and update the state safety sticker."
"*sigh* Ok, we'll bring it this afternoon."
So we took the van in, and Les and the mechanic drove it down the road to the shop. We were assured that it's a simple process that will take no more than 15 minutes.
Forty-five minutes later, Les and Brian, the lot manager, came back without the van.
"We have a problem."
"What?"
"We can't get the van started."
"Why not?"
"We think there's a problem with the alarm system, and that we tripped it and now the engine is shut down and we can't get it going. We're going to jump the battery."
I've listened to enough Car Talk to know that this sounded like a stupid plan.
"Why? You just said that you think it's an alarm problem, not a battery problem. Why don't you just deactivate the alarm?"
"Oh, that's very difficult and complicated."
"We didn't have any problems with the alarm. We turned it on, we turned it off, the van ran fine. So what are we supposed to do?"
"We're trying to get it started now."
"OK. That's strange. It was running fine when we brought it here."
That started a prolonged argument that ended up with Jason and me in Brian's office, Jason sitting quietly looking peeved, and me and Brian arguing. Brian's point seemed to be that we had bought a cheap van as-is, and it wasn't his problem. According to him, he just happened to be the unlucky one who had possession of the van when it stopped working. I pointed out that when I bought the van, it was running, when I took it home, it was running, when I brought it back, it was running, when he took it down to the mechanic, it was running, and only after the mechanic did something to it did it stop running. He reiterated again that it was a cheap van. I told him to stop lecturing me about buying a cheap van, and that "as-is" meant that I assumed the risk of the condition of the van as of the time I bought it, not that he got to fuck it up more after I bought it and then dump the problem in my lap.
The argument was going nowhere, so I said so and said that I wanted to see the van and what the mechanics were doing to it. Turns out, it was the alarm, which the mechanic suddenly remembered how to deactivate (it wasn't so complicated after all). But in the meantime, they had flooded the engine trying to start it and sprayed some kind of high-octane shit all over the engine and the fuel injectors. We waited for the engine to de-flood, finally started it, and began the trip home. About 10 miles into the 17 mile trip, the engine started to lose power and acceleration. First Jason couldn't get it over 60, then 55, then 50, until by the time we were a mile or so from the house, we couldn't get it about 15 mph and we were waving people to pass us. But we managed to get home, found a mechanic not too far away, and arranged to take it in the next morning.
The next morning, we couldn't get it started at all. So we got a tow-truck to take it to the service place. That was on Saturday (April 15). The service place worked on it for 5 days, managed to get it started and fixed the alarm system, but the car still won't run -- as soon as you put it in drive, it stalls out. They can't figure out what's wrong. So now we have to pay to have it towed to the Ford dealer so that maybe they can figure out what's wrong. And in particular, whether what the dealer did caused the van to go from a rough-running -- but nonetheless running -- vehicle into a completely broken down piece of shit. I have confidence that the answer is yes, and when I have enough evidence to satisfy the relatively low "more likely than not" civil court standard, I'm going to take Brian to small-claims court and hand him his ass on a platter.