My husband John and I are preparing to move across the country to Colorado. While we would love to hire a moving company to pack all of our stuff in neat little packages, carefully load them onto a truck and meet us at our destination — where I’ll be sitting in a chair, martini in hand, merrily pointing to where I’d like them to place each box — we just don’t have the money for it.

When we found out that John got a job in Denver, and that we had to be there within the next month, I did what any good Angie’s List member would do and dutifully checked the List for highly rated moving companies. My research was fruitless, however, as company after company gave me the bad news that it would cost a few thousand dollars to fulfill my moving dreams. When it comes down to it, I’d rather save that extra money and spend it on shoes or handbags and do the grueling work myself.

So, Plan B, of course, was renting a truck though a do-it-yourself moving company. I decided to go with a major brand-name company, and I stupidly assumed that they would be the most professional and efficient choice. I was wrong.

Long story short, I had to deal with a laundry list of false advertising, misinformation and pot-head employees whose idea of customer service was to agree that the company’s policies are worthless. The store clerk actually said to me:

'Ma’am, I just wear the company shirt; I don’t agree with their business practices or anything.'

I keep telling myself that it’s all going to be worth it when we end up in Denver with a few hundred extra dollars in our pockets, but at the moment the end result is pretty hard to see. At least I can look forward to the rewarding experience of writing my scathing report of the company on Angie’s List  before I go.

My boy’s been sick. For a while, he seemed to get worse by the week.

This is the same boy who carried my sisters and me to the East Coast last summer (and was accidentally rammed against a fence by my twin sister; he required cosmetic work that cost more than a grand).

He’s also the same guy who took me back and forth between Northern and Central Indiana nearly every week for almost a year to visit my then-fiance, and he accompanied me on my dark three-hour drives home on roads surrounded by cornfields.

And of course he was with me on my way to and from work as I slid on ice and snow in Northern Indiana, an area my husband calls Siberia because of the day we got a dreaded 18 inches of snow.

My boy is my beloved silver Chevrolet Prizm.

The 2002 four-cylinder car — the first one I independently owned — suffered from a fever for far too long. It mysteriously burned oil for months and shook randomly. In fact, it seemed like every time my husband and I put oil in its engine, the black gold would be halfway gone in about two weeks. The strange thing was that we never saw a puddle of oil underneath the car, and no black smoke ever trickled out the exhaust.

Family and friends told us the car, which had fewer than 100,000 miles, shouldn’t have been guzzling oil like that. And when my husband and I recently poured some engine restorer into the engine in a desperate effort to heal the car's wounds, the poor boy’s fever turned into something like convulsions or whooping cough.

So we recently took the Prizm to a local auto mechanic we found on Angie's List. We resorted to using my husband’s Chevrolet Malibu (or as I call it, his 'boo' ) for transportation for a few days. My husband prayed that my car would act up for the mechanics so they could identify the shaking/oil-leak problem.

When we returned to the shop, it just so happened that the ol' Prizm just didn’t feel the urge to idle poorly for them. In fact, he ran smoothly the entire time he was with the mechanics. My husband is convinced my Prizm is possessed. I like to think he’s just ornery and likes to play games, a bit like me.

We learned that three of the car’s four cylinders were burning oil (we still don’t know why). We had to replace the spark plugs, which were worn and oil-covered (that’s actually helping the car to run more smoothly — no more shaking!)

Now, we just need to monitor the oil consumption. If the car continues to leak oil and ruin the spark plugs, we’ll have to either keep regularly replacing the plugs, or replace the engine for a more permanent solution.

Otherwise, hey — I have an excuse to a get a new car.

Can you spell Cadillac?

Nah, I'm sure my husband won’t go for that.

Angie's List is rating medical services, and since we’ve been writing about medical related issues on the Blue House Blog, I thought I’d share my recent experience.

I had to take my mom to the doctor on Tuesday. She'd been having sharp pains in her stomach and couldn’t sleep due to the discomfort she was experiencing. My grandmother and I kept trying to get her to go to the hospital, but she decided to hold out and wait for her appointment with her doctor.

I couldn’t understand why she was purposefully prolonging her suffering. That all changed when I met her doctor. He’s a wonderful fellow who remembers her name, knows where she works and what she does, and takes sincere interest in her health and well-being. He talked to her about what he thought was wrong and even touched on other issues he was concerned about. He made sure to make eye contact with her and even directed questions toward me.

As I sat through the exam with her, I realized why she preferred waiting to see her doctor than risking it and being poked and prodded by strangers at the hospital. It’s a toss up: you never know who is going to attend to you when you get admitted to the hospital. That’s why I think it’s so great that Angie’s List is rating medical services.

A lot of people have no one they can trust with their most precious asset: their health. I hope the ratings on the List help other potential patients find amazing doctors like the one my mom sees.

I’m happy to say that my mom is doing better. She was diagnosed with an ulcer and is taking medication to help heal it and stop the pain.

I took Armand Z. Pogue, also known as Mini-Me, also known as Son-of-Mine, to the orthopedist yesterday for what we all hope will be the last time. You may recall that he wore full leg casts for a while to correct a case of clubfoot, which ultimately required surgery. It was a minor surgery, but of course, when you’re a parent of a seven-month old heading into the operating room, no surgery is “minor.” Fortunately, our doctor was able to give him his final checkup, several months after the surgery, and proclaim him completely healed. Honestly, given the way Armand has been toddling around for months now, we pretty well knew it, but it’s nice to hear that all is well from The Expert.

(Famous people with clubfoot include Mia Hamm, Troy Aikman and Kristi Yamaguchi, which goes to show that being born with feet nearly sideways doesn’t exactly doom your chances of athletic glory. Good thing, too, since I’m counting on this kid to be a champion decathlete to support me in my old age.)

It got me thinking about the amount of trust my wife and I have placed in our doctors. Armand has two, three if you count the ob-gyn who did such an excellent job delivering him. And I’m well aware of the limited amount of time doctors have to deal with each case, so it doesn’t surprise me when they only have five, ten or fifteen minutes to dedicate to Armand’s care. In the case of his orthopedic surgeon, the meeting was closer to two minutes; he seemed quite certain that Armand’s feet were okay in the first ten seconds, and spent the rest of the time just checking to be sure he was right. It was a quick in-and-out, but it didn’t bother me it all. It comes down to that trust issue again, of finding a doctor whom you can count on. I don’t feel rushed or hurried; if the doctor takes only two minutes to figure out that a clubfoot surgery has gone well, I’m willing to take that judgment.

A lot of my trust exists because when things really HAVE gone badly, each of these doctors has come through. Armand’s surgeon and his staff were able to take time on the day of his surgery to completely recast Armand’s legs when his inordinate kicking habit ended up kicking the casts right off. (Strong legs, that kid.) His primary care physician has been on the phone with us at 11 at night calming us down when he’s running a 103-degree fever. We only had a few emergencies during Katrina’s pregnancy and delivery, but our ob-gyn came through with complete authority each and every time, and the result is a perfectly healthy toddler boy. We’ve seen the doctors in crisis, and they always well; as a result, when they say “No, really, there’s nothing to worry about,” we tend to believe them. And as first-time parents with frayed nerves anyway, the ability to trust those calming voices is just about the best thing we could ask for.

They aren’t the only good doctors out there. Hit up Angie's List and see what people in your area are saying — with any luck, you’ll find some as good as ours. I say “luck,” but really, the whole point of using The List is to significantly improve your odds.

I truly enjoy this time of year. Some may lament at summer’s passing, but I’m fine with saying ‘goodbye’ to 90-degree weather and Saturdays spent indoors with the shades drawn. It’s just too hot. And, as I glance down at my decidedly pale legs, I’m reminded that the sun and I aren’t BFFs. I’ve spent the past three months dodging its cancer-causing rays and wondering how people can tolerate living in the tropics! But as my corner of the world slowly starts to tilt and the sun becomes “less hot,” I find my weekends are quickly filling up with outdoor activities.

One of my favorite fall pastimes is picking my own apples at a local orchard. When I was a kid, that was basically all you could do at an apple orchard. You showed up, they gave you a crate and pointed you toward the trees. The rest was up to you. If you were lucky, there might be a glass of fresh cider waiting for you when you returned to the barn, and maybe – just maybe – some apple butter and biscuits. And that was it. You usually picked more apples than you could eat, but those extras quickly found their way into a homemade pie or jam.

But, that was then. Apple orchards have come a looooong way since I was a little person. Visiting one today is almost like visiting an amusement park – and usually with just as many people! There are carnival rides, games, face painting, concession stands, arts & crafts, pony rides, wagon rides, corn mazes and pumpkins.  It’s your one-stop autumn shop! Who knew you could package and market an entire season? But they have, and I still love it. After all, everyone needs a good caramel apple once in awhile. (Have you noticed how extravagant caramel apples have become? Wow!)

Hmmm, do I smell a new category for the List?

Like Lindsay and YaShekia, I’m house-hunting. It’s for all the usual reasons — it’s a good investment, I’d like to have more space, and after a few years of renting, it’s time to take the next step and buy a home.

I’m not too picky. A safe neighborhood and good resale value are two of my top priorities, and of course I want a home that’s affordable and in good condition. But when it comes to the interior, there aren’t too many must-haves on my list. As long as the kitchen has enough room for a table and chairs, I don’t need a formal dining room. I don’t need a family room and a nicer living room, either — I don’t have that much furniture anyway. I’m not someone who simply has to have a fireplace. No dishwasher? No problem. (Although it certainly would be nice to have one.) But one of the main things I’m looking for has nothing to do with what’s inside the house: I want a fenced-in backyard for my dog.

I should clarify — I don’t actually have a dog. Well, not yet. That’s another reason I’m looking forward to buying a house — so I have the room for a four-legged friend. I’ve even picked out the kind I want: an English Springer Spaniel, which is what my family had when I was growing up.

Besides seeing dogs at work — there's often another staffer's pet paying a visit to the Blue House — there are a few dogs I try to claim as my own, like my roommate’s Golden Retriever (below left) or my parents’ Miniature Schnauzer (that's him and me, at right). A part-time pet means the best of both worlds — I get to enjoy having a puppy around, without having to pay for food or visits to the vet.

Even though the financial obligations will kick in when I get my own dog, it will be nice to have a pet around all the time, not just when I’m visiting family in another city, or when my roommate (who goes out of town a lot and usually takes her dog with her) is at our apartment. And with Angie’s List, I have a great resource to help me find a vet, groomer, dog walker or pooper scooper.

And the money I spend on a puppy will mean some savings in the long run; after all, with a dog in the house, who needs that dishwasher?

It's rare that I miss my private Catholic high school. The cafeteria food was always bad, the bathrooms were always filled with fifty smoking 'rebels' sharing three cigarettes, and the teachers always seemed to single me out, saying 'Pull your pants up,' or 'Tuck your shirt in.' I hated uniforms.

But there were good things about it — few responsibilities and fun Friday football games come to mind. One thing lost in my memory until recently, however, was picture day. I loved it. It was the one chance to wear something different than the blue-shirt and khaki-pants uniforms we were required to wear each day. It also gave me the opportunity to get out of a classroom and harass a working professional: the cameraman.

Every 'Say cheese!' received cross-eyes. Every 'Smile!' received a tongue. Every 'Stop doing that and look at the camera!' received both. I loved manipulating adults into hating me.

So what happened when we had picture day here at the Angie's List Blue House? The complete opposite. Missed class? No — just work that needed to be done RIGHT AWAY! Cross-eyes? Brandon, our staff photographer, encouraged it. Harassment? Brandon harassed me.

So this time around, some of the excitement was lost, but I still had fun. What if you're a parent sending your child off to picture day for the first time? A few tips from the List:

Make sure to avoid bold stripes or patterns in their clothing. They draw the focus away from your child's features.

If your child wears glasses, consider taking out the lenses temporarily to avoid a glare.

And remember that ultimately, you want your child’s personality to show through in her or his photo. So if your son wants to bite his favorite glasses, or wink at the camera like Popey, relax. You’re capturing who they are at that moment. Check out Angie's List Tips for other helpful tips regarding school picture day.

When I was growing up, our family doctor was Dr. Patel. I could never understand a word he said, but my mom could — and that's all that mattered.

If anyone in our family was really sick, Mom would call Dr. Patel's office. Beverly, who was both the receptionist and the nurse, would answer the phone and schedule an appointment for us that same day. We'd go in, wait a bit, see Dr. Patel, get the diagnosis and prescriptions, and go home to get better.

When I moved to Indianapolis nearly three years ago, finding a doctor wasn't a big priority for me. Overall, I'm pretty healthy and only go to the doctor for routine checkups. But, on occasion, I get these really nasty upper respiratory infections — in fact, I'm suffering from one right now.

The first time I got really sick in Indy, I checked with my health care provider for in-network physicians in my area and called a few of them. After describing my symptoms — chest congestion, sinus pressure, watery eyes, cough, etc. — they all told me this: 'The next available appointment is in two weeks.'

What?!?!? I needed care RIGHT AWAY. Where's a Dr. Patel???

I went to an immediate-care facility to get some medications for that first bout of sickness, and I did the same thing for this bout. It costs a bit more money, but at least I get the necessary medicine to be on the mend.

What I don't get is any sort of bedside manner — no inkling that the physician wants to hear my health concerns or take the time to do more that write a prescription. It's assembly-line medicine.

I still need to establish a relationship with a physician here. There's great comfort in seeing a doctor who knows your medical history from having treated you and talked to you in the past. A doctor should see you as a person, not as a medical file. In my search for a Dr. Patel-type in Indy, this time I'll not only consult my health care provider's network, but also the List, so I can find someone who is available to listen and treat my symptoms.

Dentists and veterinarians recommend the same thing: regular dental cleanings and checkups are a must. I and my dogs have learned this through some rather painful experiences. (that's Diva to the right, playing hide and seek as a puppy).

Except for a lapse of judgment in college when I thought I was invincible and didn't see a dentist for a few years (I had to have several fillings, thanks to my laziness) I take care of my teeth: I brush, floss and visit my dentist regularly.

And except for a lapse of judgment in college when I didn't realize the importance of taking care of my puppies' teeth, I also take my dogs' dental health seriously. Veterinarians say dental health is extremely important for pets for the same reasons as it is for humans. Lack of care can lead to bad breath at the least, and infections leading to early death at the worst.

One of my dogs, Aja, is a rough 'n tumble type of girl. She's always been highly active, and loves running, jumping, and chasing and biting things (thankfully, not humans). For a while though, she was quite the grouch, and when I took her to her first dental cleaning several years ago, our veterinarian (highly rated on the List, of course) asked me, with a straight face, 'Does she chew on rocks?' I thought he was joking, but he wasn't: Aja doesn't chew on rocks, but somehow one of her molars was completely split down the middle, lengthwise.

This probably caused her a lot of pain for quite some time, hence her grouchiness. I felt like a horrible puppy papa after that, so now I'm vigilant when it comes to all of our dental care. I brush their teeth regularly with special doggy dentifrice, take them to professional cleanings every six months and feed them dog food without added sugar (you'd be surprised how much sugar most dog foods contain.)

In spite of my dogs' nicknames (Aja, at left in the picture, is 'Snaggletooth' and Diva is 'Stinkbreath'), they're still happy to flash big, toothy grins whenever I take their pictures. But when I tell them 'Say cheese!', I'm sure they aren't thinking of smiling: instead, they're hoping for a big chunk of cheddar with their names on it.