Who you calling "Toxic"?

I can't seem to recall exactly how the stars aligned recently to allow me a few spare moments to peruse an old issue of People magazine. Probably has something to do with the fact that Oprah was taking yet another vacation. At any rate, I managed to catch up with the likes of Jennifer Garner (battling a stalker!), Nicole Richie (debuting a jewelry line!) and Michael J. Fox (not cured!).

I skimmed most of it, but I got sucked into an article about Britney Spears and her "I hate when people call this a" comeback. There she was, all depressed-looking in the full-page photograph, followed a page later by a shot of her juggling a bunch of music awards. And while I delved into the article ready to mock the stupid redneck rich girl, it became immediately obvious: this chick is really miserable. All the money and hair extensions in the world can't change the fact that she went nuts, lost her kids and now, isn't even allowed to buy a pack of Hubba Bubba without an OK from Jamie Spears (the dad, not the loose little sister).

But for some reason, I still had this nagging suspicion that all that cash must cushion the crazy just a teeny bit. Isn't driving to your court mandated prescription drug rehab in your Ferrari better than taking the Big Blue Bus?

I had forgotten about the article until a couple of days ago, when I watched a Diane Sawyer exposé on 20/20 about the Appalachian "mountain folk." These people live in trailers surrounded by garbage. They have no teeth because they put Mountain Dew IN THEIR BABY BOTTLES. Many of them are addicted to prescription pills and the ones who aren't spend their black-lung-shortened lives buried in the coal mines. I spent a summer during college delivering pizzas to people just like this, in the Appalachian foothills. An otherworldly combination of stunningly beautiful scenery inhabited by stunningly impoverished people. I got lost a lot, tooling around the backroads in my Subaru wagon with directions like: Turn left at the crossroads. About four miles up the hill, take a right. Follow the path to the clearing, third trailer on the left. A gaggle of dogs, chickens and barefoot kids would come running up to the car. Their dad (brother? uncle?) would offer me fourteen bucks for a thirteen dollar and sixty seven cent pepperoni pizza and a two liter of soda (Mountain Dew, natch).

Point is, it reminded me of my roots (well, if not exactly upper-middle-class suburbia, my brief foray into the real world) and how I used to imagine what people in California might be like. With their fancy cars and their five hundred dollar haircuts. And it made me realize that to somebody in the Appalachian wilderness - darkest dark I've ever seen - I might as well be Britney.

So now I'm gonna spit out my gum and say a little prayer.

FREE: Super cute offspring

I'm sorry, did I have the audacity to imply that I was having a bad day, sitting around on hold with the insurance company?

AT LEAST THEY DIDN'T SPIT ON ME. OR SWAT ME IN THE EYE.

One of Bugglehub's cousins has this clever little saying about living with preschoolers:

"You've got the terrible twos, the horrible threes and THE FUCKING FOURS."

Then you've got the assholes who volunteer to combine any of the above, then complain about it.

Let's have them two years apart - it's ideal. It all seemed so quaint at the time.

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.