I'm kinda partial to Double Cross

As of this moment, I have been on the phone with the the Prince of Darkness - Anthem Blue Cross of California - for forty minutes, twenty-three seconds and counting. How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved by You) Muzak is tinkling annoyingly from my speakerphone. Normally, I'd be multitasking right now - job hunting on Craigslist or folding laundry, for example - but I can't. I'm too pissed off.

A couple of weeks ago, we received a letter from the insurance company indicating that, as of March 2009, due to rising health care costs, our monthly premium would be increasing by twenty-seven percent. This on top of 2008's increase of nearly the same. You're correct, dear readers: that's approximately seven times the current average rate of inflation. When I called them last year demanding to know exactly what it was that was getting so damn expensive, they balked, spewing out some ridiculously circuitous nonsense for which I had no retort. What was I going to do, cancel and reapply for an even higher rate someplace else?

I decided to call today not to demand an explanation for corporate avarice, but simply to obtain an overview of my (so-called) options. I'd been inspired to act after a visit last week to Buggleboy's pediatrician. He's got another ear infection, natch. She was also following up with me regarding his visit to urgent care last weekend for pinkeye (we're just a rainbow of ailments over here):

Doc: What drops did they prescribe?
B-Mama: Vigamox. You know, the ones made with real gold flecks?
Doc: How much did you pay?
B-Mama: Sixty bucks.
Doc: With insurance?
B-Mama: I don't get brand name coverage until I spend five hundred dollars per person. And now they're raising our premiums again.
Doc: Those motherfuckers. I've got a cousin in Redlands who could disappear your troubles, no problem. Capice?*

*My intuitive interpretation. Actually, that part went more like:

Doc: Don't even get me started. You'd probably be better off paying everything out of pocket and just having emergency coverage. Make some calls, do the math.

I can tell you, friends, what Anthem Blue Cross is not spending its yearly blood money on: telephone representatives. After forty-seven minutes and twelve seconds, some chick picks up. And she has absolutely no idea where Earth is. When I try to ask her about the various plans, particularly a group called Lumenos (christened, no doubt, by one of those pricey, trend-forecasting consulting firms), this is what happens:

Representatard: Which Lumenos plan are you interested in?
B-Mama: I don't know. Your website offers no real explanation at all. What kind of plans are they, exactly?
Representatard: I'm not really sure. You have to set up an account through Mellon Bank. Shall I give you that number?
B-Mama: No. I don't want to talk to a bank. I called you to find out more about these plans.
Representatard: What number did you call?
B-Mama: The one on the bottom of the screen. The one that says, For more information, call 1-800. . .
Representatard: I'm sorry ma'am but that's not the number where I'm at. I handle things like if you want to change your address, things like that. You need to talk to your agent. . .

This degenerates into a bad sitcom, with my having no idea that I even have an agent, the Representatard offering me this agent's name and extension and ultimately, his turning out to be a very genial guy who handles only new accounts and alas, can't help me at all. But he does joke with me about Anthem's utter incompetence (You're preachin' to the choir. They got a lotta new people. A lot of 'em don't know what they're doin'. Note to job seekers: no barriers to entry at Anthem!!). He offers to transfer me, then promises to throw in a couple Hail Marys to help me end this phone debacle.

So ten minutes later I'm still on hold, my kid is now awake and I put the phone on speaker, set it down, and IT HANGS UP.

I wasted an entire nap time - and it ends like this? With misplaced karma? Please. I didn't actually call her Representatard out loud.

This whole episode has got me thinking about what an amazing job the health care lobby has done, evoking McCarthy-style fears: that if we move even one little inch toward a national health care initiative, we'll fall into some kind of socialist nightmare. The fact is, we spend more on health care than any other industrialized nation (many of which offer universal health care) and still have forty-six million uninsured (check out www.nchc.org for more puke-in-your-mouth-a-little tidbits).

Like so many other gnarly, socio-political conundrums, it reminds me of a scene in Dirty Dancing, the one in which Baby's big sister Lisa posits insightfully:

I've been thinking a lot about the Domino Theory. Now, when Vietnam falls, is China next?

Then there's this classic gem:

You wouldn't care if I humped the entire army - as long as we were on the right side of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. What you care about is that you're not Daddy's girl anymore. He listens when I talk now. You hate that.

But I digress. . .

I mean please, people. I don't see anybody freaking out about the fire department. Or the library. Yes, both local, rather than federal, institutions. But let's see. . .the F.B.I.? Anybody complaining lately that nationalizing crime investigation and prevention has us careening down a slippery slope toward communism? Where is my beige, iridescent lipstick?

My brain hurts. And hell knows I'm not going to be pre-approved for a neurology visit anytime soon.