Oh, what's that? A $20 co-pay for office visits? I would like to make three appointments, please. At one of the appointments, I am only coming in to finish that four month old Time magazine article. This is great, I mean, I could break my leg any time and not have to worry about paddling my raft to Cuba anymore for treatment. My last insurance policy had a $2,500 deductible and was so bad that it was the equivalent of not being covered at all. It would cover things like pap smears, but I had to have it done in a back alley and bums got to watch. My birth control was $80. Dang, America, the cost of healthcare is such an economically paralyzing force, why the eff are we against fixing it? I am tired of waiting until I am 70 for the sweet life like handicapped parking, discounts at Denny's and Medicaid.
Awesome benefits aside, marriage is hard. In my mind, it is common sense not to step on a white damp bath-mat with dirty sneakers on, but not to others. . . who shall remain nameless (don't tell my husband, but I am talking about him). He has been traveling incessantly for the past week and a half, will be home one night this week, and I am in our new apartment alone with three animals at war. We bought them an electric drinking fountain to share and Ruth Bader Catsburg is guarding it with a ferocity I haven't seen since Tina Turner in Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. The dog interrupted our "goodbye time" this afternoon by vomiting all over the bedroom rug and I took her for a walk on my own for the first time ever tonight and she had diarrhea so bad it was like a walking hot chocolate machine. We also haven't finished unpacking yet from Saturday's move. We have too much furniture and our livingroom looks like a waiting room. Our new neighbors like death metal and "herbal remedies" for "glaucoma." They seem nice.
I decided to change my last name and take a new, equally Jewy last name. At this point, I updated Facebook and I just assume that makes it legal. I also hope this means I can take on a new identity and nobody will catch on that I am the same person that chased their bicycle off the sidewalk threatening a clothesline maneuver or yelled at their screaming brat in the grocery store.
"A girl named Rachel Goldstein smashed a plastic margarita pitcher over your head repeatedly at TGI Friday's? Sorry, doesn't ring a bell. My name is Berman."
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