This Is Not a Rant

I'm not going to rant today. Well, maybe I am. A little bit.

I finally opened the envelope from the long-term disability company. It did indeed have a many-page form asking me to explain why I think I'm disabled, and why I don't think I'll be getting better anytime soon. It's like déjà vu all over again. Didn't I already submit all this information for the short-term disability claim? It's the same company, fer Pete's sake. Don't these people have a photocopier?

They say my neurologist didn't fill out the form they faxed to her, either, and they want me to bug her about it. Hello? It's exactly the same form she filled out, for the same company, about the same person with the same condition, a month ago. No wonder physicians feel like they're inundated with paperwork.

But I'm not going to rant. It's Friday. If it's a gloomy, wet weekend, which it looks like it will be, Scarecrow can build a fire, we'll have a single malt scotch, and listen to The Swing Years And Beyond on NPR. If you had told me, when I was 18, that I would consider this a hot Saturday night date, I'd have asked to be euthanized on the spot. Now it sounds kind of nice.