Is it Monday already?

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So I’m crawling out from under the bed – my, how you’ve changed since I’ve been gone! You’ve got that new haircut and, hey, wait a minute, have you lost weight?

Hey, I’ve got a new haircut, too! I did it in my bathroom, with an old pair of Fiskars! No, just kidding, I used my Shun kitchen shears for the final touches. Who would seriously cut their whole head of hair with Fiskars? Come on now, you’re being ridiculous.

After learning the details of my health insurance policy, which could best be compared to hanging naked from a second story window, cuffed by your wrists and covered with birdseed, I promptly broke out in hives. I owe a substantial sum to my therapist, who, luckily, is being cool about this whole thing, and I don’t even want to think about how much McLean Hospital is going to bite in for. I’m sure my psychiatrist doesn’t come cheap. To add icing to the proverbial cake, these hives have been sticking around for over a week now, so I’ll have to spend another $170 for some dude at the health clinic to tell me he has no idea what’s wrong with me.

Yes, sometimes life is good, my friends. And, sometimes, it’s like being kicked repeatedly in the teeth.


FML. Really. No, REALLY really.

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Imagine we’re on Facebook here.

Erinire A…

Just found out she has a health insurance deductible of $4,000. Good thing she’s not at all dependent on weekly therapy and expensive medication to keep her alive!

… Oh, wait.

Well, at least she’s incredibly wealthy, right?

… She’s not? Shit, OK, well…

At least she hasn’t racked up a lot of service charges, thinking she actually had REAL ACTUAL health insurance!

… oh, so you mean, she DID think she actually had real actual health insurance.

Alright… So then, um, at least she has that tax rebate coming back, huh?

Oh, she OWES.

Wait, what? FIVE GRAND? Get out of here, you can’t be serious.

You are serious. OK. Um…

So, then, like…

Yeah hey, know what, I have this, um, thing… around the corner, so… yeah. Gotta go. Sorry. Here’s my last Miller High Life.

… No, no really, take it. Least I can do, considering.

Oh, come on now, don’t start crying! Oh, man…

Shit.


This really gives my “car-ma” category new meaning.

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Our neighbor knocked the sideview mirror off our car. And by “our car” I mean “B!’s car” by which I mean the Focus. To be fair, the mirror hadn’t attached properly since August 2006 and had been held on with metal screws since sometime in 2007, so it probably wasn’t the most solid of things. But still. I mean, you break your neighbor’s car, you should tell them, right? Maybe apologize? Because, I mean, this mirror thing effectively totals the car. Without it, B! can’t pass inspection, and without that, he can’t drive the car. Right? Right.

So our neighbors effectively totaled our car.

Now, I’m no stranger to the “hit and run” mentality – this one time, after college, I was late to work and accidentally backed into the rear driver’s side door of this car parked behind our driveway. And, I’ll admit, I panicked. I drove away. But I was SO RIDDLED WITH GUILT that after work I spent an hour driving around the neighborhood so I could find the car I hit and leave a note with contact information. Turns out it was a good thing I did, because that car belonged to MY neighbor, and, to make matters, worse, he was standing at the front door when it happened. I paid for his bodywork out of pocket – no small feat, on my waitress salary – but the financial burden at least helped to alleviate my guilt.

I’m not saying that our neighbors should pay for a new mirror, or that they should buy us a new car, but really. If you break something that belongs to somebody else, you should at least have the common courtesy to tell them. If this is karma, it’s not well-balanced. Don’t you think?


I’m glad I didn’t get litigious with those voicemails.

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B! and I spent our first Christmas together with no heat.

Things started to go south the night of the 23rd, it would seem, because by the morning of the 24th our thermostat read five degrees below its target. We pondered this while rushing to my parents’ house, 40 minutes away, for Christmas Mass and dinner. We pondered it further on our drive back home, as the temperature dropped and the hour grew late. Upon arrival, our apartment was a balmy 58 degrees, and we intellectually deduced that the heat was for sure not working. We opened our presents under piles of blankets and slept with four quilts.

That was all kind of romantic and sweet actually, until the morning, when things started to suck. It was freezing, far too cold to shower (too cold to wash my face, truth be told), and so I arrived at my parents’ house a dirty, shivering, unkempt ball of angst. I mean, fucking Christmas, right? Who shuts off someone’s heat on Christmas??

(Actually, it happened to me in 2005. So this is the SECOND time I’ve had my heat shut off on Christmas. Sidenote.)

I called National Grid, who didn’t have an answering service, and I called my landlord, who didn’t answer his phone. And the more I thought about things, the madder I got. I mean, I’d been paying my bills, right? I know the account isn’t in my NAME per se, but obviously SOMEBODY’s signing the checks. And you choose December 23 to enforce your right to terminate? National Grid! You bastards!

Eventually I got someone on their emergency line, who told me that, because we still had hot water and gas for the stove, that it was an internal problem. So I called my landlord again, who didn’t answer. Again. By 11pm, I was googling “tenant’s heat rights MA” and constructing a lawsuit in my head. I mean, I know it’s a holiday and everything, but for God’s sake, man, CHECK YOUR VOICEMAIL! This is an emergency, and you’re legally bound to respond. B! and I stayed with my folks that night – him on the couch, me in a twin bed – and woke up early to drive back to Revere.

An icy blast greeted us when we opened the door, and I called my landlord for the THIRD time and left a message in my Serious Voice. For those of you who have heard my Serious Voice, you understand it is not to be messed with. My Serious Voice means business, you know, and I guess he must have heard me, because less than five minutes later he walked in our front door. B! greeted him cautiously, and together we ventured down into the basement to find….

a big ol’ oil heater.

Oil. Not gas. Oil.

And, hey, guess what. We’d run out.

Oops.


This day is not going well.

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I’ve been feeling really stressed lately. I have two high-test jobs with two high-profile producers, I’m actively seeking more freelance work, and I have no less than 4 weddings to edit. Plus I’m looking for an apartment, trying to find time for my friends, and I gained all this weight so none of my pants fit me anymore. The latter is unrelated to the former or anything else, but contributes to my discontent in a way that only weight gain can.

Each day, before getting out of bed, I check my email. Usually it’s just mailing list spam-crap, but today there was an email from my producer. It wasn’t a happy email. And it’s my fault that it wasn’t a happy email. If there’s one thing that makes me feel worse than wearing ill-fitting pants, it’s feeling totally inept, and so if he’s not happy then I’m not happy and nobody’s happy. So let’s take that as a start.

Then I had this job interview for some freelance work. I’m feeling like a fat slug, I have nothing to wear, it’s pouring rain, and my hair has all the bounce and body of a dead rat. Plus, I’m like, why would anyone want to hire ME? I can’t even do basic MATH, it’s a miracle I can even put my SHOES on in the morning without HURTING somebody. I sucked in my gut, buttoned my old trouser jeans, and resignedly pinned back my bangs. I looked like shit. No lie.

So the interview went OK I guess, and then I went to Starbucks to do some work, and got yet MORE bad news from the boss. So feeling less happy. Feeling a little panicked, in fact. Feeling, for the first time in months, like an Ativan might be in order.

Instead, I turned to retail therapy. There was an Urban Outfitters near the Starbucks, and Lo! A sale on jeans! Things looking up! Except for how they had no jeans in my new, bigger size. Except for how, en route to the Urban, I got a CALL from my producer. Still not happy. So I’m still not happy. Even if they HAD my size at Urban, I STILL would not have been happy. Work is more important to me than well-fitting clothes, you see.

But I was scheduled for a lunch date with Shanna and baby Hayden, and baby therapy seemed like not such a bad thing. She’d asked me to pick up some sandwiches for us, and a bag of chips, and I was all set to do that until the lady in the sandwich store yelled at me for not closing the refrigerator. So I forgot all about the chips, and felt like a huge asshole.

Then I had baby therapy and a beer, and I ate my whole huge sandwich and felt like a beast, and then I got my hair cut and realized I had no cash for a tip, meanwhile, I’ve gotten ANOTHER email about the work situation and things are NOT looking up but I still have to go to the post office and mail this DVD this client’s been asking about for like MONTHS and maybe I can bring the tip to her tomorrow before I leave for DC? Then holy shit I still have to pack and what do I wear and what do I have that fits me and at least my hair looks a little better now but SERIOUSLY JUST SHOOT ME IN THE FACE BECAUSE IJUSTCANTTAKEITANYMORE.

Aaah. Now I feel better.


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