Year: 2007

  • I’m not sure I’m in good hands

    One huge advantage of working for a large pharmaceutical company, other than the ulcer-inducing stress, is the insurance. Big pharma will flat hook you up with some good insurance coverage. In fact, during my 10 years in the industry, P had two back surgeries, a septoplasty, and some sort of esophagus thing due to the fact that he used to almost choke to death while swallowing baby aspirin, and I had a baby. All of these surgeries combined cost us about $2.99 out of pocket.

    And when you work for a drug company, guess what? You get their drugs for FREE. I mean, you still need a prescription, but after that minor detail is worked out, they are FREE. It’s enough to make you want to have something wrong with you. “No, I don’t actually have high cholesterol, but prescribe something anyway. IT’S FREE, plus it counts toward my monthly quota!”

    And these braces that I constantly complain about, although I know someday I will be so appreciative of my straight teeth because that’s what everyone keeps telling me, I will forever owe a debt of gratitude to the pharma industry for these teeth. The industry may have shaved 5 years off my life due to the high blood pressure, but at least I will have a beautiful smile while I’m here.

    So, once I started exploring all of our private pay insurance options, I quickly realized that cash money can’t buy an individual policy like the one we had. Yes, we could Cobra our old insurance for 18 months, except that it’s $1500 a month and really, what good is health insurance if you can’t do frivolous things like buy food? The other thing is, truth be told, it was more insurance than we really needed, but I can’t turn down a good deal. Every year when the company would send us our a la carte menu of coverage options, I always checked all the boxes for maximum coverage because I am an insurance agent’s dream come true.

    If I were to ever go to Vegas, I’d be the girl pumping petty change into the nickel slots all day long. I am not really a risk taker. Well, unless someone can guarantee me with ABSOLUTE certainty that the risk will pay off in the end.

    Anyway, I finally found a policy that will work for us. By the way, if you’re ever in need of insurance, a great place to start is at www.ehealthinsurance.com, which will give you various plan benefits and cost comparisons. Just be prepared that your phone will start ringing off the hook with agents looking to “help you out”. They are all so sincere and really, they just want to help you out in the same way a shark looks to protect a wounded mullet.

    Once I started filling out the application, it became apparent to me that insurers are more than happy to take your monthly premium, as long as you can pretty much guarantee that you’ll never actually use the insurance. And an individual policy with maternity coverage? There are rumors that such a thing exists, but I have yet to see it. I guess they figure they can hedge their bets on other illnesses, but for a 30-something woman, pregnancy is inevitable and may even require (oh the horror!) a c-section complete with a 4 day hospital stay.

    After filling out a 114 page application, the insurance company now knows more about my personal health history than my physician. I had to check a box marked “Allergies” as a pre-existing condition. Who doesn’t have allergies? It’s the American way. Those “amber waves of grain” are really just fields of allergy inducing pollen. Allergies are an unalienable right.

    Yet, the insurance companies want no part of it. If you have allergies, buy yourself a Benadryl. If you’re depressed, think happy thoughts. If you have high cholesterol, eat a piece of fish. If you have acid reflux, take a Tums. Prescription medication is for the weak. Doctors visits are overrated. A hospital stay is a luxury akin to going to a 5 star island resort. So what are we paying for?

    Peace of mind.

    The peace of mind that can only come from knowing that, when and if we encounter a health crisis, we can call our insurance company and they will haggle us, perhaps literally, to death. And we get to pay for the privilege.

  • Saturday night’s all right for fighting

    On Friday afternoon, Caroline came running in the house because she wanted a pickle. This has become a little tradition at our house and now, whenever she is helping P in the backhouse, she feels the need to eat pickles. And really, who can blame her? There is nothing more satisfying than a sweet gherkin.

    As I was doling out the pickles, I asked what she and Daddy were doing and she answered, “We’re out back making bullets”. It was one of those statements that causes me to stop and ponder what my life has become. My daughter and my husband are out back making bullets. It’s a sentence that I never imagined would describe my life, along the same lines as “I’m going to wait until these shoes go on sale”.

    But bless their redneck hearts, I love them and their propensity for manufacturing ammo right in our backyard. Nothing says we are right wing, red state Republicans like making homemade bullets.

    Except for maybe this.

    Saturday morning, P asked me how we go about purchasing a pay-per-view event through our Dish Network service. I wasn’t exactly sure since we have never ventured into the land of pay-per-view, and normally, you just push a button on your remote that allows you to buy a program. But when our Dish Network was installed, the helpful technician said foul, horrible things to me like “phone cord running along your living room floor” and “wires that will show”, so I chose Option B which was the no wire option, but also means that we have to call a number to order pay-per-view. And y’all really don’t need to know, nor probably care, about any of this.

    My point is I asked P what pay-per-view event he was wanting to spend money on, because I felt like it was a safe bet that it wasn’t “The Holiday” starring Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet. Sure enough, he wanted to order UFC 71, which for you novices is Ultimate Fighting Championships 71 (and I don’t know what the 71 stands for). It seems that someone named Chuck Liddell was going to be defending his heavyweight title against someone named Rampage Jackson, and I don’t know much, but based on the names, I’m thinking Rampage sounds a lot more intimidating than Chuck. Rampage is a fighting name, whereas Chuck is more the name of an accountant who coaches Little League teams on the weekend.

    So, last night we had some friends over to watch the Spurs game and then, UFC 71. I even poured some Sour Patch Kids into a bowl to make the occasion that much more festive. Good times.

    I guess the UFC people figure that if you’re paying to watch this event, then they need to give you your money’s worth. It was the longest buildup to a main event that I have ever seen. They had multiple matches with lesser fighters to get the crowd good and ready for Chuck and Rampage. And speaking of the crowd, there were celebrities there including Andre Agassi, Steffi Graf, and Mandy Moore. Mandy Moore a UFC fan? Who knew? There was also a celebrity named Lil John and based on his shiny red tracksuit, gold grill, multiple gold chains and the fact that he has “Lil” in his name, I’m pretty sure he raps for a living.

    Finally, and I do mean FINALLY, it was time for the main event. Rampage came out first wearing a classy, diamond encrusted grill in his mouth and stopping intermittently to howl at the crowd. It was all more than a little disturbing. Then, amid much ado, Chuck Liddell came out and basically strolled down to the ring like he was on his way to show little Johnny how to hit the ball off the tee. No howling, no diamond grill.

    Which may have been his problem.

    About 1 minute into the fight, Rampage landed a right hook across Chuck’s jaw and that was the end, which means we paid about .75 cents a second to see this event. Money well spent, my friends. Well spent.

    Then, in the post-fight interview with Rampage, he was celebrating his victory over Chuck and said, “He didn’t even touch me. My new name should be NO TOUCH”. And at that moment, I decided that hearing that kind of eloquent, witty banter more than justified our purchase. Mr. Rampage (or should I say Mr. NO TOUCH), my hat is off to you, your right hook, and your clever repartee.

    You made it a Saturday night to remember.

  • The vendetta

    Caroline has this little chair that used to belong to P when he was a little boy. It’s a sweet little wooden chair and it spent most of her babyhood sitting in a corner of her room. A few months ago, she discovered it and has been keeping it in the living room. Sometimes I let her sit in the little chair at the coffee table and eat her lunch while she watches Charlie and Lola.

    Well, the other day, she was eating lunch in her chair and I heard a crash. Somehow, she had fallen backwards in the chair, but since it’s so low to the ground, she wasn’t hurt, she was just mad. She looked at me and said, “Mama, I don’t like that chair anymore. I want you to put it up.” I told her I would, and then just kind of blew the whole thing off because that’s pretty much how I handle everything.

    The little chair remained in the living room. Then about 2 days ago, she was already upset about something, because she’s 3 and that’s part of her schtick, when she noticed the chair out of the corner of her eye. She stopped in mid-tirade, looked at me and said, “I thought I TOLD you to PUT THAT CHAIR UP!”

    I realized two things. One, we need to work on her attitude and two, she was serious about the chair.

    It’s such a cute little chair that I didn’t want to put it away, but wasn’t sure what to do with it. So, I put it next to my desk chair in the kitchen. Then, this morning, she walked over to where I was typing at the computer to tell me something and when she turned to walk away, she tripped over the little chair and fell.

    That chair had crossed her for the last time.

    She stood up and kicked the chair and then, for good measure, kicked it again. Realizing this wasn’t causing the level of destruction she was looking for, she stomped her foot down hard on the seat of the little chair. At that point, P and I talked her down and pulled her away from the chair. If she knew what an obscene gesture was, I have no doubt she would have directed one in the chair’s direction as we dragged her away.

    Needless to say, this house isn’t big enough for the two of them. I’m thinking the chair has to go.

  • Hair today, pain tomorrow

    About a month ago, when I still was earning a paycheck and I spent money like we were the Ewings, but without the blackmail and deceit, I decided to make a lifelong dream come true and purchase a laser hair removal package for myself. Because really, Caroline is a smart girl and will probably get a scholarship to college, she doesn’t need us for tuition. Plus, how am I supposed to give her the enriched childhood she deserves if I’m spending all my time waxing and shaving? There just aren’t enough hours in the day to do it all.

    So, I did some research in the form of asking Dee, my former co-worker, about the process. She is an authority on all beauty type issues and I knew she had laser hair removal done a few years ago. I called Dee’s laser girl (not the technical term), purchased a hair removal package over the phone because it was ON SALE , and then scheduled the first of my five appointments, which is how many times it takes to completely shock all your hair follicles out of existence.

    And then, I quit my job.

    However, since the sessions were already paid for, there was no turning back, which is just proof that God was looking out for me and figured if I was going to spend my summer chasing a 3 year old around the pool, that my life would be easier if I didn’t have to worry about bikini line, underarm, and upper lip maintenance. My life will be stressful enough just spending so much time in a swimsuit.

    He is truly the giver of all good gifts.

    The day of my first session, I drove to the doctor’s office and was so excited. I was almost there when Dee called to check on me. I asked her the question that, in my infinite foolishness, I had neglected to ask earlier, “Does it hurt?”

    She answered, “Not really. I mean you’ve had a baby, so you can handle it.”

    Oh. my. word.

    It wasn’t exactly the comforting analogy I was looking for. Yes, I have experienced childbirth, but please note that I only have one child. While it was an incredible experience, it’s not one that I’m looking to repeat with any frequency. Plus, I was pretty sure the cost of laser hair removal didn’t include an epidural.

    I went in and signed a stack of paperwork that basically said that I could experience a myriad of unpleasant side effects, including the darkening and/or lightening of the skin on my upper lip. I prayed for a miraculous lightening of that skin, crossed my fingers and laid on the table. The dermatologist came in for a consultation, which consisted of him looking at my lip, stating the obvious “you have dark hair”, and then pronouncing me a fit candidate for the procedure. Then, Laser girl came in and I asked her if it was going to hurt. She replied, “Oh, yeah. It will hurt”, and then repeated Dee’s comparison and said, “but you’ve had a baby”.

    Great. I am an idiot who doesn’t ask the right questions far enough in advance. Maybe while I was feeling so giddy about my 20% discount, I should have asked about the pain. But oh no, it was much more important that I was getting a good deal.

    Laser girl applied some type of gel to my lip and an ice pack and went to work. Ironically, the laser was called the Cool Touch 1000, which is the biggest oxymoron of all time. The Cool Touch 1000 burned like the heat of 10,000 white hot suns surrounding a planet of volcanoes filled with molten lava.

    At one point, Laser girl stopped before moving on to my underarms and I asked her if someone had burned some popcorn in the office. She replied, “Oh no, that burning smell is your skin and your hair.”

    Well, what a relief.

    All I really know about torture is what I used to watch on Alias, oh, and also what my orthodontist does to me on a monthly basis, but make no mistake about it, this laser hair removal stuff ranks up there for sure. It would make Jack Bauer talk.

    However, for the last few weeks as I’ve marveled over the fact that I don’t have to shave my underarms or apply Surgi-cream hair removal to my lip, I’ve decided it’s all worth it. Like childbirth, the end product is so great that you forget what you endured to get to that point.

    Unfortunately, unlike childbirth, I have to go back for 4 more sessions before I am completely done.

    Next time (yeah, right), I’m asking for the package that includes the epidural.

  • DVR stands for Done Very wRong

    We’ve all had people in our lives who have hurt us, betrayed us, broken our hearts. Oh, they promise they won’t do it again and then they do, which just makes us feel all the more foolish for trusting them in the first place.

    So, you can completely understand why I will never trust my DVR again.

    I half watched/half fast forwarded through 2 excruciating hours of filler material on American Idol tonight, only to get down to the scene of Jordin and Blake awaiting the final results and discover my DVR has cut me off. Dirty, stinking tramp of a DVR. We are so over.

    And yes, I went to Fox News to find out that Jordin won, but you and I both know it’s just not the same. I was deprived of the dramatic finish that I feel sure would have brought me to tears. And I know I can watch it on YouTube or whatever, but it’s NOT THE SAME.

    Oh DVR, who wooed me and promised to be so much better than my old VCR, you are a filthy, filthy liar. From now on, you occupy the same place of distrust and unreliability as my nemesis, the crispy beef taco.