Dear Government,
I have made some bad investment decisions in the past. These include:
-Added applications to my cell phone plan that I rarely use, like “SnoodBlaster” which was only fun for like 10 minutes
-Bought tight pants; accidentally put them in dryer, making them too small to wear again
-Signed up for Netflix, then allowed boyfriend to queue “National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets”
I realize now that these were bad choices, but there is no way for me to recoup my losses for any of them. I would like you to consider the fact that if I go bankrupt as the result of continued bad decisions like these, it could affect millions of other American investments and lives. It probably won’t– I’m just saying, you never know. Please bail me out? I only need about ten billion dollars. I promise to make it worth your while.
Sincerely,
Molly
I Need to get a Job or Take a Class or Something!
Having spent most of my life in the Northeast, my knowledge of other regions of the country is limited. This problem is amplified by having grown up in New York City, which, I eventually learned, is unlike anywhere else in the United States, and possibly the planet. So I don’t know jack about what to expect from living in North Carolina. I will be the first to admit it. This should be fine, since I know I have a lot to learn. I am keeping an open mind and am excited to meet people and explore my new locale.
Still, I have found that I do have a few silly and romanticized notions from my heretofore limited exposure to the South. For example, yesterday I came across a name badge from our local supermarket on the sidewalk. The name on the badge said RHETT.
I got all giggly and excited.
If you haven’t had a stranger call you on the phone and ask, within five minutes, how much you weigh, and whether you’ve ever been hospitalized, then you’ve never experienced the magic of searching for an individual health insurance plan.
I recognize that being in a decent physical condition is something to value. But I’ve never thought of it in monetary terms before, and talking to someone whose job it is to think that way can make you feel uneasy.
“This guy I’m on the phone with,” I began to realize, “works for a company that wants to make money off of me, which they won’t do if I get sick or hurt. And if I AM sick or hurt, he wants nothing to do with me. I’m on my own!”
It’s enough to give you the creeps, even before the agent who told me, “You’ll notice that health insurance coverage is slightly more expensive for women.” I had noticed that, I replied. “It’s because THEY actually go to the doctor!” he said, and chuckled. Health insurance brokers: not only persistent—they’re also hilarious!
Another agent warned me that certain prescription medicines might not be covered under various plans—but that I likely wouldn’t know which ones those were until I tried to fill them. “If the prescriptions are too expensive, the insurance company isn’t going to want to pay for them,” he reasoned. Certainly not! Why should I expect my health insurance company to pay for my expensive medicine? It should get to keep all of my money!
Nearly every agent I’ve spoken with (and there have been quite a few—once you put your phone number out there and request a quote, they crawl out of the woodwork), as has asked me why I am interested in acquiring health insurance. I began to wonder—is this a trick question? Are they hoping you’ll slip up and say, “Because I have a heart conditio—uh, I mean…no reason.” I usually level with them. “I need health insurance because I don’t want to go bankrupt if I break my leg and have to go to the hospital. I’m scared that I might be injured and suddenly I’ll be $500,000 in debt.” The best part is, they always respond, “Oh, I know—totally. It’s scary.” This response does not increase my sympathy for the cause of privatized healthcare. At least SOME form of gambling is legal in every state.
I wasn’t going to get up early this morning. I figured I’d sleep in, since it was the weekend. Plus I’d gotten to bed late the night before. Ahem.
What got me out of bed in an instant was the realization that I could watch the Sunday morning news shows.
This is becoming a sickness. I can’t keep doing this to myself! I am obsessed with news coverage of the presidential race. I compulsively scan the internet for more damning information about Sarah Palin. (Granted, the hits DO keep on coming. Good job allowing Wasilla to charge rape victims for forensic kits when you were mayor, Palin! Apparently you actually said “Yes please wait maybe not thanks but no thanks for the bridge to nowhere.”)
Still. I need to cut back before I lose my mind. The whole thing is like a rash that I can’t leave alone. If I’d only stop scratching it, it would heal a little. But I can’t! It’s so itchy and hurty!
And looking at the polls right now makes me break out in hives. I need to hibernate until Nov. 2nd. With one day of wakefulness during which I vote. Who’s with me?
You just have to sit back with a few glasses of wine and watch “The Wedding Date” with the dog. Of course, the movie was his choice. Damn it, Charlie! I don’t need to see Debra Messing as an unlucky-in-love spinster who has to hire Durmot Mulroney as her wedding date! Oh, all right. If you insist. Another glass? Oh, I guess so. If that’s what you want. Man, Debra Messing sure is unlucky in love. When will she catch a break?
Oh, right. At the end of the movie. Well, good for her.
I drove to a job interview today in Brian’s Tahoe. To call his truck ‘big’ is an understatement. It feels like driving a building—a lurching, mutinous building, that doesn’t particularly care for the directions you give it, so it obeys them on its own time. Brian’s last truck was a twenty-year-old Landcruiser, so I guess he likes them that way. When I first got in the passenger’s seat of that Landcruiser, I thought it was the largest truck I’d ever ridden in. Brian’s form in the driver’s seat to my left felt like it was four feet away. Now, in the Tahoe, we sit even further apart. I never would have thought it possible, but it is even bigger.
When I am driving it, which is only when I absolutely have to, I sometimes forget how I look to other cars on the road. Since I feel small and timid behind the wheel, I assume that other drivers can sense my meekness, and are going to try and crush me. Chances are, though, that all they actually see is a monstrous blue Tahoe. When I realize this, I suddenly feel like a tiny bunny sequestered in the head of a giant rampaging killer robot. I’m sure everyone has those days.
So, I have recently relocated to North Carolina. This is exciting and life-changing in a number of ways, some of them unexpected– others, extremely guilt-inducing. The road to self-discovery appears to be paved with shame. For example, in the past few days I have learned:
I kind of love to drive!
It began with my purchase, from my folks, of a dark blue 2003 Pontiac Vibe, and continued with a subsequent two-day, fifteen-hour road trip down to North Carolina through hurricane Hanna. I have never driven for that long at a time in my life, through such ridiculous weather conditions, but it somehow left me more excited than ever to be driving again.
I know, I know. With gas prices being the way they are, it’s not the best time to get your groove back through driving. But come on! I get great gas mileage! Don’t look at me like that. AND, for nearly all of my life– in NYC, Hawai’i and Boston, I have relied almost exclusively on public transportation to get everywhere. It’s nice to not have to work around someone else’s schedule for once (326 bus, I’m looking in your goddamn direction). There’s no more frantically looking up bus times online, like when I lived in Medford, and doing the dance of “I’ll need to leave an hour early for the movie, because the next bus after that will make me miss the previews. Heck, why don’t I just walk the 40 minutes, because that will get me there at the right time anyway.” I shit you not, I Heck just walked the 40 minutes more times than not. I do like to walk. But damn hell, now I get to drive!
What is the first thing that comes to your mind when you hear the words “package store”?
I was in the parking lot of the ABC Package Store down the road from my new place, with a large box I needed to mail in the passenger’s seat, about to get out of the car when Brian called.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I couldn’t find the UPS Store I mapquested before I left,” I said, “so I’m at the package store. Hopefully I can mail my box from here.”
“Wait, the package store?”
“Yeah. The ABC Package Store. On Timber Road. To mail that big box?”
Suffice it to say, had Brian not called at that moment, I would have taken my box into the ABC Package Store only to discover that it was in fact a liquor store. Because in North Carolina, liquor stores are known as package stores. Well, duh!
“I guess that explains the sign out front that says ‘No Loitering.’ I was wondering who would want to loiter outside a package store. I mean, how exciting would that make this town?”
Brian and I are in disagreement as to whether it would have been more hilarious if he hadn’t called, and I had lugged my box inside and tried to mail it. I feel that I probably would have covered it well.
“I need to mail this pack…age…But while I’m here, I’ll take a fifth of Wild Turkey.”
Brian recently developed five rolls of film that had been sitting around the house for the last three years or so. About twenty percent of those photos involved the dog reluctantly wearing clothes. Mostly socks.
I think both of us might need hobbies? or children? or medication? Or all of the above. Tell me we are not alone.
Have you heard the one about the McCain/Palin ticket?
Q: What’s the difference between a Vice Presidential Candidate and a Hockey Mom?
A: ::: Scream of despair:::
I Heard Tell 