ATF: What College Does for You, and Notes for a Tuesday

It is raining here, not too hard, not an annoying drizzle, just right. Napping weather, which I shall after I post.
Obviously, the new userpic speaks to the current situation.

ATF:
I can't believe I forgot this jewel from yesterday's conversation with David Ortiz. He was trying to mollify me about waiting still another week for a settlement on the latest contents claim.
"Big Brother's watching out for you."
I was gobsmacked by this. Never mind the "there, there, little lady"-ness of it, holy cow. I wasn't sure what to say, and I started to laugh.
"Mr. Ortiz, I have a college education, those words do not exactly inspire confidence."

There you have it. Our agent is now trying to settle with Unspeak. 

ETA: The foot-dragging, at least for today, is over the washer, dryer, some tools, and the lockers in my room. Mark challenged Ortiz on whether or not we'd been told to set items aside. As in, "No, you didn't tell us that." 
Again, there was the question of when we bought the washer and dryer. Again, that question is answered: we bought them the day we signed our lease.

All roads still lead back to "What are you trying to pull?" 
It's irking me because the house was empty (as in we didn't live in it) for two months before demolition started. The washer and dryer were there. State Farm could've inspected them.
I think part of the reason the length of time is being questioned is that it's seen as a delay to get working items trashed and replaced, and State Farm can't inspect what we don't have. They keep deflecting invitations to come out and see what we have, and see that it's about a year old and never in a fire.
That fact that we'd gotten a portable storage unit (PODS, not "iPod") was questioned. We've haven't claimed a damn thing that was in that container. It was mostly the books that survived and my piano (which is in the house now), and some plushes Summer couldn't bear to leave. 

Why they are nickle-and-diming over items that equal 2% of our limit on contents is beyond me. We're ready to let it do, already. Fine, don't pay us for the damn washer and dryer. Fine, don't pay for the lockers in my room. FINE. Can't we just fucking settle, already?
I am getting much irritated that they won't at least settle the other 169 items on the claim. C'mon, guys.

Notes:
ATF Book
The book on the fire is starting to come together, and I will be looking for an agent. "After the Fire" has been used a lot (for obvious reasons), so the title will not be that. "Angry, Filthy, and No Underwear: The House Fire Survivor's Self-Defense Manual," is most likely, although I also like the subtitle "A True Story About How My Sense of Humor Didn't Burn Up in the Fire, State Farm Did That All by Themselves."
With pictures, of course, both photographic and cartoons. Angry and funny. The book I wish I'd had.
The shape of it is autobiography with what I and the family learned from the day of the fire to at least now.
Naturally, there will be a section on our delightful dealings with State Farm. How positive that sections is is now entirely in State Farm's hands. "I wish I could help, but I can't."
"Let's hope he wasn't insured with us!" will be the header of a chapter or section, I can feel it.

My top six things after a fire? Glad you asked.

Get a digital camera ASAP. Start taking pictures right away. You can never have enough pictures, said the lady who took the picture of her trashed dining room table on the dumpster.
Read your insurance policy.
Lock up everything you want to save.
Do not trust anyone to follow directions. They are not as invested as you are.
Document exhaustively, words and pictures. Times, dates, who you talked to, what they said.
Get help if  a loved one, housemate, or companion animal dies. You are so going to need it.

Work-related:
I have two freelance jobs, finally, after a drought of more than a year. One is some logo design for a neat production company. The other is seeeeekrit. I will post more after I hear from the publisher.
Boy-Related: I found out some interesting things from a mom whose son, Dex, went to the same elementary school as Boy. Chief among them was that the Academic Mastery teacher would shoot the kids with rubber bands, calling it "rubber band tag," even though he was the only shooter. The goal was to get the kids' attention. The teacher shot Dex and Boy. Dex, who is autistic, was running from the rubber bands (as you might imagine a kid with sensory issues would), tripped, and cut his arm. Not badly, but enough.
I don't know what the fuck the teacher thought Dex's abilities were, but they're enough that Dex could tell his mom what had happened, and that the teacher said, "Let's keep it a secret, or we won't be able to play any more."

I'm absolutely sure I don't need to expand on why I'm bothered by what was done, and the teacher bargaining for a secret. It is hard not to wonder. I was glad that this mom confirmed my own feelings that the teacher was creepy. I'm going to try to get her to go to district. I can't do much, since Boy can't tell what happened.
It sure could explain a lot of Boy's screaming fits about not wanting to go to school.
"While I have grown men shitting in my backyard, another grown man is shooting my son with rubber bands."
Sounds bad when you say it like the truth.

Off for a nap, then logo design!