March 17, 2006
Better Hipsterkeeping
Posted by hissycat at 01:04 PM | Comments (2)
December 18, 2005
Photoshop + CSS + JoJo = BFF's 4-Eva
Now all it needs is some content and its golden! What, you don't want to read a 100+ undergrad English thesis in its entirety? It'll be a gas, I swear it! Some fun you are.
Also, you know what really sucks big time? You know how sometimes you piss away two months in bed, chewing your hair and procrasturbating through an entirely thoughtless, reptilian existance, and then you're not depressed, and all of a sudden, there are a katrillion things you realize you want to do-- write a book! make stop-motion animation with k-biz! create a small replica of the Tower of London rendered in Shrinky-Dink!-- but now the world's all, oh, hey Joanna, you're feeling a little bit not morbidly depressed, are you? Well, fuck you, sister-- now you've got to change the cat's litter, and pay your psychaitrist's bills, and visit your angry parents, and get another awful job to go to and work and eat any time you might want for writing or reading novels or maki the cat fall off furniture or Shrinky-Dinking paperbacks until, once again, suicide seems a really, really attractive alternative? You know what I mean, don't you? That kind of really sucks, right, am I so right? You with me?
Oh dude, my freshman RCC (freshman Residential Computer Consulstant-- Counselor? Consultant? Counselor? Consultant?) just walked in and is sitting not enough feet away. This, too, makes suicide an attractive option. I totally just flipped up my collar like I'm a cartoon.
I have to go home now and put my cat in her new Pet Voyage carrier. I can't win. I might as well sling her around my hip while I wash dishes. She can practice being in her bag.
A funny moment is when someone gives you a breathalizer test and you blow a zero (it's also funny to type out "blow a zero"-- you try!) and the person who breathalized you is all, "this thing's broken"-- because, presumably, your behavior indicates obvious inebriation-- and you're all, "yeah, ha, ha, it must be broken," but secretly, in your brain, you're all, "right, no, you just can't breathilize for cocaine." That is a pretty funny secret thought. I would imagine.
Posted by hissycat at 07:50 PM | Comments (2)
December 05, 2005
Good News
I have a new diagnoses: I'm bipolar! Type two!
I'm not actually being as facetious as I seem. New diagnosis means new medication, and since what I'm on now clearly isn't doing the trick, I'm anxious to try something new. I'm still in insurance limbo and can't afford to see a doctor so for now my father is writing my prescription. It's not ideal being treated by a family member, but he's a good psychaitrist, and this is how it'll have to be for the moment. I've been too depressed/ anxious/ overwhelmed to seek out a new doctor in any case. People ask me why I don't at least go see my old doctor but they don't understand. "I don't have a car," I say. "Take the train." The train? That is so complicated, it would never work. I'd have to look up schedules, and wake up at a certain time to leave, and go to the station, and buy a ticket and find a seat among all the people, then wait for my stop to come up. I can't fit even get my brain to think through all that. Doing it? Totally impossible.
When I feel better, when the new meds have kicked in, then I can deal with getting a new doctor, here in the city.
Wait, wait-- I'm almost at the best part. Topamax, which is what I'm taking starting tonight, has weight loss as a side effect. Just the thought cheers me up. Loss of appetite, here I come!
Posted by hissycat at 09:45 PM | Comments (9)
November 16, 2005
Must Be The Pills
At two in the morning I weathered a small but surprizzing blizzard of domesticity. I made creme anglaise. Out of nowhere! I was compelled by this totally uncalled for urge to make pudding. . . or custard. . . or charlotte russe. Of course, I did not have the necessary ingredients. I made the "creme" using the rice milk I dug out of the back of the cupboard. The egg and sugar mixture, when added to the hot rice milk, did not behave. The stuff smelled ok, but looked like a pot full of curdled vomit. It may even have tasted ok, but I couldn't tell you, as I don't eat things that look like curdled vomit.
The domestic urge was predictably brief. I did not clean up. The stuff is still on the stove, looking, now, like curdled vomit that was left out and congealed.
I wrote a story about a chef who cooks pudding in lieu of leaving her husband. I don't know if this happens to anyone else, other writers maybe, or if it's just my special brand of insanity, but sometimes I'll be doing some random thing-- cooking creme anglaise in the middle of the night, for example-- and it will occur to me that I am acting like one of my characters. Not that I'm leaving (or not leaving) my husband. Not that I have a husband. But the fictitous personage in question compulsively cooks yolky foods for the numb and comfort of stirring something and the milky smell. She even makes creme anglaise specifically, in the very first paragraph of the story. I creep myself out. I must be out of my skull to think of things like this.
But, aside from the back pain, which I think is getting worse, I felt some amount of better today. Like my heart pain was finally abating some. I picked up that package I've been meaning to pick up forever, then walked over to the Embarcadero and sat around looking at water and bridges and listening to Martha Wainwright (hitting repeat on "Bloody Motherfucking Asshole" more than once) and smoking. It was the golden hour, with sunlight that could break your heart. Smog obscured everything on the other side of the Bay Bridge, like someone had spilled water on a page and blurred out all the lines.
I walked home, and when I got in the gate there was mail-- the good kind; not bills!-- waiting for me. The new New Yorker had arrived, and it contains a wonderful poem I love ("Impersonater of Blank Walls" by Charles Simic). And even better, I recieved a packet containing two new books for me to review. And if there's anything I like more than books, it's free books.
And my new friend (!) invited me to a cool art cool thing on Saturday, so there's that to look forward to. That and the Peckinpah film fest in Berkeley.
New reasons to live. Which I deperately needed, as I've watched all the Desperate Housewives I've been able to download.
P.S. I haven't been able to download many. If anyone has any Desperate Housewives and would be so kind as to share, I'd be eternally grateful. I'd bake you cookies and mail them to you and everything. (Pudding doesn't ship well.) Seriously. I'm getting fiendish and I need another hit.
Posted by hissycat at 07:39 PM | Comments (7)
October 10, 2005
The Sober Writer: A Sign Of The Times; and, An Appeal To Dave Eggers
Upon arriving at work this morning I was delighted to find in my inbox an email from my dear friend Ameeth directing me to this NYTimes article about the growing trend of members-only writing centers in New York. These exclusive cozies, apparently, are popping up faster than pustules on the member of Paris Hilton's latest conquest. Accompanying the link was a message:
Pathetic. I hate new york. stab stab stab stab
Though I love that city of mine with all my filthy heart, I admit to on more than one occaision been known to sputter with far less eloquence than he sentiments of a similair nature. I appreciate as much as the next New Yorker the chance to rag on the "cool people" and "writers" and other boroughlings whose lives and successes I wish I had. (For the record, I am allowed to say offensive things about New York, for I am of New York, much like Woody Allen may say offensive things about the Jews, for he is of the Jews. If Ameeth had not lived in Brooklyn the past two years, earning his right to resent and detest every white boy with bed-raggled hair in Williamsburg, I would have not taken his comments in such good stride. Lest you think his Brooklyn years were not enough, rest assured he also attended Brown, which, in certain crucial ways, bears a more than passing resemblance to Brooklyn.)
My reaction to the article was twofold. As I'm always keen on a chance to vituperate any writer more successful than I (in this regard, my utter lack of success is truly a blessing, as I have a virtually infinite number of targets onto whom whom to direct my groundless ire), you can imagine how I must have snorted with gleeful scorn to read statements such as this:
"The concept of writers as drunken Hemingwayesque malcontents traveling the globe is over," Ms. Cecil said. "They see it as a job now, and they see themselves not as inspired alcoholics, or depressive psychopaths alone in a tenement. It's more mainstream. It's good kids going to M.F.A. programs, then looking for a place to find the kind of writerly community they had in grad school."
Fucking rat shit good kids! Fucking bitchy bitch fuck fart M.F.A. programs! Jesus fucking mainstream! Ugly fucking whore cock grad school! Somewhere, I know, Fran Lebowitz is rolling around atop her unmade pull-out couch, horrified to read that the belles lettres have sunk so low as to fall to the hands of the sober. If these sober, ambitious, M.F.A.-weilding goody goodies are the writers of the future, than I am frightened for what the future holds. If writers can't be lovable alcholoic malcontents, I ask you, who can? Or, to put it another way-- and this is where it really hurts-- if depressive, alcoholic, deranged psychopaths who live alone in filthy tenement apartments, who have only a cat and a bottle of gin for love, can't be writers, what can I be? People, I am running out of options. An unreliable malcontent just can't catch a break these days.
Oh, and I almost threw up when the doyenne of Paragraph compared her quill club to a gym:
Ms. Parisi compares writers' rooms to gyms. In both, a large group of people share the same equipment. And, paying for membership helps writers take their commitment to writing seriously, she said, and gets them "off of the couch" and onto the literary StairMaster. . . And like exercise buffs, the writers who use these spaces need to be self-motivated and disciplined.
Egads-- "literary" and "StairMaster" are two words that do not belong together! Oh, somebody say a prayer to Jean Rhys, beg pardon from Oscar Wilde! Dorothy Parker weeps angel's tears at the thought that "writers" have become like "excercise buffs." With things such as they are one can hardly summon up the appropriate degree of horror at the lack of sexual goings-ons amongst members. It is a grim truth that when alcoholism leaves, it takes sexual debauchery with it.
And yet-- and yet-- And yet there is the other fold of my twofold reaction, which is this: I want to be let in the club. One writer quoted describes the communality of working in one these spaces as "parallel play, like toddlers in a sandbox." How delightful, I say, how appealing! That is perfect for me! I loathe human interaction and frighten myself! I need a place to go that is full of people who don't expect me to speak or smile back! "When you write at home, there's a lot of distraction. . . You want to go clean out the fridge, or tweeze your eyebrows," or, if you are me, pick your toes, "but when you go to a space to write, that's what you do." All that unholy Swedish furniture and track lighting would not only increase my productivity but impart a clean, modern birghtness and simplicity to every aspect of my life, I am sure of it.
So please, Dave Eggers, if you are listening, when you or yours decide open up one of these writers' clubs in SF-- and I know you will, because that's just the sort of thing you would do-- please, please let me in. I am sure you could find room for one alcoholic malcontent. I can be the club's kitschy, fashionably-obslete mascot. I'll sit at the door in my fashoinably-obsolete get-up of sweat-stained t-shirts, jeans I picked up off the floor, and underwear that should have been changed two days ago, I'll sit there with my fashionably-obsolete accessoriess: a copy of Ulysses and a bottle gin and let my forehead crash noisily onto a typewriter. Everyone will look up with an expression of ironic bemusement. I will be the source of much amusement! You clever young upstarts can laugh and laugh as I barf through the tears and I will oblige and drink all the more. I will blink back at you with my reddened psychotic eyes and I will not know whether your hearty laughs are ironic or sincere. And you will love me.
Posted by hissycat at 07:56 PM | Comments (94) | TrackBack
September 27, 2005
And One Pill Will Make You Fucking Confused
Marketplace ran a story about the new Medicare prescription drug benefit plan for senior citizens that will start advertising in October and go into effect January. As with all plans that purport to use the private sector for public services, the touted benefit of the plan lies in the mythical power of consumer choice: choose what you like and let the companies compete for you (never mind that there is more power in being part of a group than in being a lone customer with nothing in the way of bargainning power). The angle presented on Marketplace emphasized the difficulty of choosing a plan. They played a clip of an insurance rep. explaining one of the plans which, incendentally, was explained to me by the H.R. rep. at the new employee orientation a few weeks ago (the particular scheme in question begins with a deductable; after the deducatble the insurance picks up a certain percent of cost until you hit the "roof," after which the insurance picks up none of the cost until another roof is hit and the insurance company pays either all or some percentage of costs thereafter). Then they played a clip in which another insurance rep. starts a conversation with two delightfully grumpy old men who croak at the young whippersnapper, "Are you selling insurance?" "Who is paying you?, eh?"
It was an interesting way to report the story, but I would take their line of skeptical inquiry a step or two further. Having just had the experience of having to pick a plan myself, I can testify that the unnecessary complexties of these plans are truly astounding. I'm a bright enough girl, and I couldn't make sense of it all. I'm sure there are plenty of people more confused than me. Which isn't even to get into the fact that if your government or employer is making you choose among different plans, they are basically admitting that none of the choices is wholly satisfactory in itself, that you are being asked to gamble on which deficienies will harm you least. Companies and governments, if they wanted to provide good coverage, would offer one plan they feel is comprehensive enough to cover everyone's needs.
It's not accidental that the choices are so ridiculously complicated and confusing. Health insurance policies profit off the confusion of policy holders. In the same way that cell phone/ computer/ electronic outfits profit enormously off of "free" deals that are free only after a mail-in rebate because a certain percentage of the customers loose their receipts, make a mistake filling out a form, or just plain forget to mail the rebate in, health insurance companies rake it in by confusing and/ or inconveniencing their policy holders so thoroughly that the consumer ends up footing much more of the bill than he or she should. I was a pained witness to this strategy at work when, last winter, Brett had to jump through hoops (and really, really small hoops very high up and enwreathed in flames, at that) to get the insurance to cover doctor's bills. Every time Brett called the insurance, he was given a new representative to speak to so that in all eleventy-hundred of the conversations he had with the company, he never spoke to the same individual twice (incidentally, this is a practice very similair in method to a practice called "cramming"that most phone companies use and is considered an unfair business practice. Phone companies routinely overbill-- most of the time the customer doesn't even notice-- and then make it near impossible to get the charges removed. They do this by making it so frustrating and inconveniest that most customers just give up. Listen to This American Life's story #253, The Middle of Nowhere). He was never told the last name of the person he was speaking to, even when Brett asked; one might guess this is to respect the privacy of the employee, but I don't think so. Not knowing the last name makes it impossible for the client to request to the same person again (phone companies have this policy, too). Needless to say, each new representetive Brett spoke to was unfamiliar with Brett's case and so had to be filled in by Brett, after which they would tell Brett to do things he had already done; he would tell them, and then he'd get transferred to speak with somebody else. It's very shrewd of them, really: the entire burden of explaining things rests on the shoulders of the patient while it is impossible to ever hold anyone at the insurance company responsible since you can't ever hold anyone to what they tell you.
The process dragged on for months, and at one point, his petition for partial reimbursement was flat-out denied. When he called to ask why (since earlier, a representative had explicitly told him to go ahead and pay out of pocket and he would be reimbursed), he was told that, somehow, a digit of his social security number had been entered wrongly into their system. Rather than correct their error, rather than calling Brett to verify his informatioin, they very deliberately chose to deny the petition instead. Brett hounded them, filled out more and still more forms until they finally aceeded, but it would have been no mark on Brett's credit and capabilities if he had thrown up his hands and given up. There is only so much a person can do. Especially (duh) a sick person.
Another, though less prologned, example of this kind of disingeniousness occured when I needed an abortion last winter. When I figured out I was pregnant (not all that difficult to verify: I missed my period, I got sick and weepy with hormones, my body felt sort of funny and wrong, and all the pee sticks showed two brilliant pink lines), I wanted to deal with it immedeately. I knew I wanted an abortion, so the quicker I could go to the gynecologist and have the procedure scheduled the better. Since it was obvious I was pregnant, I didn't bother to go to the Student Health clinic to pee in a cup, but instead went to see someone at the hospital right away. I was later told that because I had not checked in with my primary providor (the student clinic), the insurance would not cover the tab for the visit, lab and ultra-sound that totalled, if I remember correctly, just shy of $700. Whenever Brett or I would explain to someone on the phone that even if I'd peed in a dozen clincic cups I would have had to go to the hospital in any event since there aren't real doctors at the clinic, only NPs, and that the only thing that NPs do is administer pee tests, which I had already done, we were met with maddening repititions of a handful of lines that reflected a complete lack of absorption of anything we had just told them. The only way I was finally able to get a retroactive referral (at least two people told me that there was no such thing, which is patently untrue) was by going in towards the end of the day, crying and pitching a fit until I was permitted to speak with some heigher-up who, after I related my story, finally showed me some mercy. While annoying, the frustrations and stress of battling the insurance company did not prevent me from getting what I needed; I had the abortion and the insurance, however reluctant, did cough up the money. Not everybody, though, has the advantage of being a hysterical, demanding bitch from New York raised by two psychaitrists and therefore aware of the need to self-advocate in the medical system. They shouldn't be punished for a lack of bitchery. Why, if anything, they should be celebrated. Getting health insurance to cover what they are contractually obligated to should not require being a loud fucking bitch.
The fact that this plan is being unleashed onto senior citizens is especially concerning. It reeks of scam to me.
Posted by hissycat at 09:41 AM | Comments (23) | TrackBack
August 26, 2005
It's 2 a.m. Do I know where I am? Yes, I Do Unfortunately.
It's 2am. I am not sleeping and I am not happy. This time,I'm not happy not in a depressive, listless way but in a why the fuckdo I do this to myself? kind of way. Yes, I'm propped up andbuzzing on Ritalin and Excedrin, desperately trying to complete alanguage arts course for third-graders because I've spent all my timeat the office this week fucking around on the Internet instead of doingmy work. Oh, and gaining .6 lbs, apparently.
Yes kids, today was a Weight Watchers Thursday. I knew this hadbeen a bad eating week. I've just gotten really slack about it,not measuring portions, underestimating my Points values, snacking toomuch, descending upon the free samples at Andronico's like an elderlyJew at a half-price buffet. Every time I go in there to get asalad, I end up hovering all sneaky-eyed over the platters of cheesecubes and coffee cake cubes and cubed pumpkin bread and miniatureslices of baguette laid out next to olive oil dips and fruitspreads. Oh man, a few days ago they had open jars of thisamazing bittersweet chocolate fudgey goop and spreadable caramel, and Ijust stood there, my basket resting on the ground beside me, makingmyself at home, spreading and mixing and eating. Then I felt kindof ashamed, as I had no intention of actually purchasing the stuff, soafter I picked up my basket, I just stood at the display, picking upjars and pointing my eyes at the prices so it would look like I wasreally thinking this one over, like I needed another sample to help meconsider, just in case the flavor had, you know, changed in the lastthirty seconds. You know what would be great? If I just gotbanned from that place. I always end up spending too much moneythere anyway on yuppie foodstuffs I can't afford.
Andronico's indiscretions aside, though, I didn't actually go over mypoints by that much. I didn't even use all of my flex points, infact. I feel cheated. I feel entitled to my thirty-fiveweekly flex points, even though I know from experience that I do notloose if I use more than half of them. I was hoping for amiracle. Or, as my meeting leader, would say, "Dreaming theImpossible Dream."
Yes, this was Persistence week, and so we were treated to a veryspecial "Man of La Mancha" revue. To, you know, inspire us? Man, I've been through the twelve-week Tools for Living (also known asthemes) cycle way too many times (I bet I can name them all:Persistence, Anchoring, Visualizing Success, Positive Self-Talking,Reframing, Planning Ahead. . . oh fuck it, it's like trying to name allseven of the dwarfs). On the sunnier side of things though, I raninto a former house mate (who shall remain nameless-- some people, itseems, don't care to be Weight Watcher's outed, though I can't imaginewhy) at my meeting today. This is the first time this hashappened to me in the two years (off and on) I've been going. Notjust the first time I've run into a familiar face, mind you, but thefirst time I've run into any face aged less than forty years.
You know what? I really need to get back to work. This shitis due at noon, and these third-graders are going to be getting somepretty zaney, tripped-out stories, hear?
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Posted by hissycat at 02:34 AM | Comments (21) | TrackBack
August 11, 2005
I Said WW, Not AA
 | Currently Listening Couleur Caf� By Serge Gainsbourg see related |
The theme of this week's meeting was Winning Outcomes, and when Iarrived (late) there was, written in the large, competent red andpurple purple characters of a second-grade teacher on the bigeasel-backed pad, "What will this cost?" and "Is it worth it?" Igot really excited because I assumed it referred to specific food itemsof a covetable nature and how to know whether said item truly is worthgoing over your points for. I was totally ready to particpatewith my own real life example of how, on Monday, I had a dinner thatcost me 25 points-- which took me not only well over my daily target of20 points but also completely off the chart with my weekly flex-Points,most of which, as is usual for a Monday, had already been drunk overthe weekend (and, ok-- that morning's breakfeast)-- and it was totallyworth it. I was feeling smug about losing 1.4 lbs IN SPITE OFCOMPLETELY EMBALMING MY INNARDS AND THEN HAVING A 25 POINT MEAL OFFRIED POLENTA, LAMB CHOPS, DONUT HOLES AND DUCK FAT.
Unfortunately, my interpretation of the questions "What will this costme?" and "Is it worth it?" was not the intended one, as I soon pickedup on. It seemed that the intended interpretation was 'what willlosing this weight cost me?' and 'is it worth the sacrifice?' Soeveryone was all talking about their personal reasons for coming toWeight Watchers and how costs like giving up a glass of wine in theevening and bigger portions and french fries, is so worth it that theydon't even miss it.
Damn. I even had anice story to tell about my enlightening experience with duckfat. About how it was worth it for me because it was aspecial dinner on a special occaision and even though I feeluncomfortable writing it down here, I probably would have told the WWladies that it was for an anniverseryish (so uncomfortable I can't evenwrite the real word) dinner with my boyfriend, but purely because forsome reason, stories about anniverseries always go over really well andare rewarded with fond, nostalgic smiles and nods of blessing andapproval.
See, I almost never say anything at WW meetings, and not because Idon't know the answers (you can not listen to anything that's going onand then randomly chirp "portions" and you'll have a 50% chance ofbeing showered by the leader with praise and encouragement and approvalfor sharing your good answer with the group). I never talkbecause whenever you way anything-- "water," for instance-- the leaderwill always ask you to share some personal anecdote about someexperience you had with water, and whether you were happy about thatexperience and what would you do differently if you found yourself inthe same situation again. The women there are, for the most part,just so nice and grandmotherly (not like mygrandmother, mind you, but that's besides the point), and I just feellike my stories are just too shameful for them to know. Like,when the meeting leader asks about "difficult situations" people findthem in, someone will say, "well I'm the mother of a two-year old[sometimes, on occaision, this person will have there baby there andthe baby, with a suspiciously good sense of comic timing, will emit aloug gurgly noise just as the mother says "adorable"], so I'm always onthe go, and I end up snacking a lot instead of sitting down formeals." Then the leader will ask, "How do you think you canhandle this situation in the future so that you don't do the same thingagain?" and then the woman will say something like, "well, I'm going toplan ahead more and keep more healthy snacks around the house, and cookmore stews and things that I can heat up again later in theweek." Then the leader will say, "By making better choices, youwill be able to move past bad habits," and everyone will clap.
Once, and I swear this is true, the meeting leader was leading adiscussion on "danger foods" and how to protect ourselves from theirsiren songs and keep temptation at bay. The leader was givingtips like, "put those corn chips on the highest shelf of your pantry,where it's hard for you to reach" (yeah, like that's really everstopped me before) and "arrange the items in your fridge so that thefirst things you see when you open the door are fruits and vegetables(um, that's actually a great idea, especially since water melting offthe glacial freezerburn up north has been making its way into myvegetable bin and rotting my fucking potatoes. I should totallyget on that.). This one grandma raises her hand, and says in avoice as mild and pleasant as a sunshower in June, "Well, I've alwayshad a weakness for chocolate, and my husband loves chocolate, and it'shard for me to say no to chocolate when I see it right there in frontof me."
"And how do you handle this situation?" asks the leader.
"Well, I couldn't ask my husband to give up chocolate, but he has hisown part of the house, a den I guess you'd call it, which we added tothe house so he would have a place to work on his model trains, andthat's his space, you know, I don't go in there. Well, after Itold my husband I was having trouble with his chocolate, he decided hewould keep his chocolate in his room, so that's what he does, and he eats it there, too, and I never have to see it and feel tempted."
"See," said the leader, " By tapping into her support system and making a compromise Marcia was able to make a change in her surroundings that helped her make a change in how she eats." Oh, and all the italics are where the leader will slow her speech so that people can participate by figuring out the rest of the phrase and chiming in.
My point is, I really have nothing to contribute after a story likethat, because the situation in my life that I'm thinking about, justlike I was instructed to, is so far away from babies and modeltrains. I couldn't take the guilt of telling a room full ofgrandmas that my "danger food" is alcohol and my "tempting situation"is "cocktail hour on" and that this weekend, after drinking all myfelx-Points, I dealt with my "situation" by "continuing to drink untilI vomited the evening's points back."
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Posted by hissycat at 06:05 PM | Comments (31) | TrackBack
August 05, 2005
A-OK
 | Currently Listening In the Aeroplane Over the Sea By Neutral Milk Hotel see related |
I'm feeling very bouncy today. I slept very deeply, without any bad dreams. I got a full eight hours in (of course I woke up an hour late, but it didn't matter, as Tamara was to futzing with various cars for the next half hour anyway). Last night, I wrote. Ifeel like I'll write more today and I've set a modest daily goal for myself. I'm picking up Alex at the airport after work-- he's visiting from Seattle for the weekend. I'm going out dancing with bunnies tonight. And Brett called and invited me to dine with him at Google between work and the airport, and you know, the pleasure of an invitation is hardly diminished at all by my having to ask for it and my not being able to go (car problems made me late for work, so I'm going to stay late so I get my 8 hours of pay). But best of all.. .
I got me some health insurance!!! Oh man, I am so excited. I sent my boss an email yesterday afternoon timidly pointing out thatmy student coverage would expire soon and that I can't afford to pay for my prescriptions on my own, so at the very least could I please know if and when to expect benefits so that if there is a gap I can make other arrangements (not that I have any idea about what other arrangements I could make, as someone who can't afford to buy pills,can't afford to buy insurance, and even if I could buy very expensive insurance, I would still have to pay for my meds out of pockets, as ADDand depression fall under the category of 'pre-existingconditions.' I wouldn't be surprised if private insurance refused to pay for my birth control, too, because, you know, my reproductive system is pre-existing; I can imagine being told that if I had begun menarche while I was on their plan they could have covered me, but since I've been menstruating since well before I joined, there's just nothing they can do).
Well, I was kind of nervous and frightened about getting a response. Not that I thought my boss would be mean about it, but,I don't know, I just don't like asking for things.
This morning when I got to work there was a reply waiting in my inbox for me that said oh, of course I could have benefits, and oh, we'll just give this HR and move all this right along, and oh, if things don't move fast enough, well, just let someone know and you'll be on the phone haggling over mental health premiums with an insurance rep before you can say boo.
So that was nice. And now I'm happy.
So I like my job again today. Plus, I'm working more, which means I'm not so bored and useless feeling. I'm going to try to string out this wave of benefits enthusiasm for as long as I can, and have a more positive attitude about my job.
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Posted by hissycat at 02:49 PM | Comments (28) | TrackBack