A while ago some company misplaced their financial records, so I got a notice offering a free sub to TrueCredit. This outfit monitors your accounts to check for identity theft, or, more likely, your college-age kid looting your mastercard to play on-line poker.
It did say free, so I signed up.
Today I got a monthly report and instead of deleting it as usual, I read it. I learned of a wonderful opportunity to find out my "credit score," and since it again said free, I snapped it up.
My score is "748," which is pretty decent for the Verbal SAT so I figured I could go back to college. Then I saw the scale and it turns out I am "good" but well shy of "very good." I am in precisely the 78th percentile, which probably gets me into the Wayne State of Credit. Or maybe just WCCC.
I wondered why I didn't ace this test. I thought of yesteryear's indiscretions, when I operated on a cash-only basis, used other names, and skipped out on many bills. But those good ol’ days were a "free period." No computer, no foul.
Wow, 748. Not 7 of 10, not even 74 of 100, but a really precise, highly scientific "score." So how can I become a better person?
The answer was just a scroll away. It was addressed "Dear Stosh" so I feel sure it was personally crafted for me.
TrueCredit had two important pieces of advice for me.
"Consider opening a new account to strengthen your credit report and improve your score." To get a good score, I need to get more credit cards! From looking at the wallets (yes, I peek) of fellow customers at the grocery store, they must ace this puppy.
"It is a good idea to use your credit cards regularly but remember to keep your balances at or below 35 percent of your available credit limits." OK. Not only do I need more cards, but also I must "use them regularly." Run them up to 35% of the limit ($15K on my present card, so that would be $5,250 debt to carry at 17% interest.) I need multiple cards used regularly to become a "very good" citizen, credit-wise.
So the banking industry gives you a high "score" if you open more credit cards at their banks and use them regularly to pay the banks enormous interest rates. And their "score" pretends to be science, and determines how much mortgage interest you pay.
After careful consideration, I decided to retain my relatively modest credit status, and just work on boosting my self-esteem in other ways. I'll bet someone sells scores for that, too.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Passin' Thru the Back Door of the Medical Industry
Passin’ Thru the Medical Industry’s Back Door: How I Learned to Love Big (Nice) Brother
The excitement of visiting Dr. Bigpipe for my first-ever colonoscopy had time to build: 24 hours, more or less. That’s how long I couldn’t eat any solid food. So I went on a unique "7-Up Diet." Actually it was something called "Sierra Mist" that I found in the fridge at work. I first tried some leftover apple juice but that stuff is sweeter than pop, so I rejected it for the Mist. Along with water and coffee.
By the end of the work day I lusted after every nosh, mint or crumb that caught my eye. People were munching chips within my sight, which was just plain cruelty. So I went home and drank laxatives.
Whoa, that’s some potent stuff. Don’t plan a flight to Tokyo after a hit of that joy juice. It all came out fine, though.
Then the big morning came. My sweet Maggie drove me to the burbs, the seat of the American Medical Industry. Where everyone was Nice.
I mean really nice. It turns out that all of the medical personnel went to Nice School. The nurses, assistants, the nobodies and even The Man. In Nice School they apparently learn to answer questions politely while smiling. I asked lots of questions, testing the limits of this Nicetude. It almost crossed over to Too Nice, like when the sales guy wants to sell you the Extended Warranty. You know how Nice that can be.
All that Nicety was important, especially after they told me to show up at 8:00, then ignored me till 8:45 and then acted like I was nuts when I asked what was up with that.
Another thing I learned today – this was my first visit to a hospital since I was born -- is that the nerve center of the hospital is the Legal Department. I cannot tell you how many forms I signed, waiving my rights or acknowledging my lack thereof. A clipboarder would read me something as they signed that they were reading it to me, then another Nice One would come in and read the same thing again.
After the "procedure," they claimed I was too groggy to put on my clothes and skedaddle. But though allegedly too goofy to pull my shorts up, I was given yet another form to sign. My reading glasses were in the plastic bag with my clothes. But I gladly signed. It was just like the end of 1984: I loved Big Brother.
The third thing I learned – well, I surely knew it but now it was up close -- is that despite the Nice atmosphere, the old plantation scene is not completely dead. In the pre civil rights era south, a 60 year old man was a Boy, meant to address a young buck as Sir. Here, the 60-year old is "Stosh," the yet-more-senior nurse is "Sue," and the 30-something is "Doctor Goldsmith." Quick, name one other field where this is the case. Stumped? Me too.
Dr. Goldsmith seemed Nice. He even went to personally talk to Maggie, which surprised me. Because I saw the production line of butts waiting for him. I can hardly wait to see the fee and then multiply by the that butt count. My calculator may need more battery power for that day’s income.
One last thing about Goldie: I brought up the recent study which indicated that doctors who schedule too many colonoscopies go too fast and miss things, so people get cancer and needlessly die. He said "You’d be surprised. Six minutes is a long time." That was the very moment at which the anesthetic worked its magic.
The big poke itself? I slept through it.
The excitement of visiting Dr. Bigpipe for my first-ever colonoscopy had time to build: 24 hours, more or less. That’s how long I couldn’t eat any solid food. So I went on a unique "7-Up Diet." Actually it was something called "Sierra Mist" that I found in the fridge at work. I first tried some leftover apple juice but that stuff is sweeter than pop, so I rejected it for the Mist. Along with water and coffee.
By the end of the work day I lusted after every nosh, mint or crumb that caught my eye. People were munching chips within my sight, which was just plain cruelty. So I went home and drank laxatives.
Whoa, that’s some potent stuff. Don’t plan a flight to Tokyo after a hit of that joy juice. It all came out fine, though.
Then the big morning came. My sweet Maggie drove me to the burbs, the seat of the American Medical Industry. Where everyone was Nice.
I mean really nice. It turns out that all of the medical personnel went to Nice School. The nurses, assistants, the nobodies and even The Man. In Nice School they apparently learn to answer questions politely while smiling. I asked lots of questions, testing the limits of this Nicetude. It almost crossed over to Too Nice, like when the sales guy wants to sell you the Extended Warranty. You know how Nice that can be.
All that Nicety was important, especially after they told me to show up at 8:00, then ignored me till 8:45 and then acted like I was nuts when I asked what was up with that.
Another thing I learned today – this was my first visit to a hospital since I was born -- is that the nerve center of the hospital is the Legal Department. I cannot tell you how many forms I signed, waiving my rights or acknowledging my lack thereof. A clipboarder would read me something as they signed that they were reading it to me, then another Nice One would come in and read the same thing again.
After the "procedure," they claimed I was too groggy to put on my clothes and skedaddle. But though allegedly too goofy to pull my shorts up, I was given yet another form to sign. My reading glasses were in the plastic bag with my clothes. But I gladly signed. It was just like the end of 1984: I loved Big Brother.
The third thing I learned – well, I surely knew it but now it was up close -- is that despite the Nice atmosphere, the old plantation scene is not completely dead. In the pre civil rights era south, a 60 year old man was a Boy, meant to address a young buck as Sir. Here, the 60-year old is "Stosh," the yet-more-senior nurse is "Sue," and the 30-something is "Doctor Goldsmith." Quick, name one other field where this is the case. Stumped? Me too.
Dr. Goldsmith seemed Nice. He even went to personally talk to Maggie, which surprised me. Because I saw the production line of butts waiting for him. I can hardly wait to see the fee and then multiply by the that butt count. My calculator may need more battery power for that day’s income.
One last thing about Goldie: I brought up the recent study which indicated that doctors who schedule too many colonoscopies go too fast and miss things, so people get cancer and needlessly die. He said "You’d be surprised. Six minutes is a long time." That was the very moment at which the anesthetic worked its magic.
The big poke itself? I slept through it.
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