What happens if you get a papercut?

To me, health insurance is like your appendix. You never really give it much thought until someone tells you there's a problem with it and, oh yeah, it needs to be removed. That'll be $8,654.96 please. When the economy hit the skids, health insurance is one of the first places my company decided to "save." Our once tolerable plan was replaced with a Health Savings Plan, which I pay into and pay for and use to pay doctors. (Please, someone explain how this is different from the money being in, say, my checking account.) Knock on wood, I've been very lucky and have not needed my "appendix" but I've seen coworkers struggle with forms and phone calls as they go down that what's covered-not covered wormhole. It's situation like these and like Anita's that makes me throw a hex on those Congressmen on TV arguing against healthcare for everyone. My mom has a government job (no, she's not a senator but she has a nice state gig nonetheless) and her 401k and health insurance is truly to be envied. In my opinion, these long-winded speeches against health care for the masses is this generation's "Let them eat cake." Yet, while Marie Antoinette was beheaded (surgery on a government subsidized plan) these politicians better wise up sooner less the American people take them of this country's best health insurance plan. Then wait until it's time to lose that appendix....  

Greasing the Health Care Wheels

I’ve been buried in paperwork lately. Paperwork that I’m doing for the first time in my life. Let me back up. A year and a half ago, I was happily employed at a great company, with the best coworkers you could ask for and some killer perks…. But it’s only now that I’m realizing the best perk was health care. My Cobra clock just ran out and I’ve been kicked off the cushy group plan attached to my former company. Time to shop for individual health care. I decided to just investigate a couple of carriers to make things as easy as possible. I’ll never attach the word “easy” to health care again. It started with about 10 days of back and forth questions with the sales rep assigned to my case. And for every question I got answered, another 5 surfaced. After that, I began the 15-page questionnaire. A few pages in, I started to panic. The insurance carrier wanted to know just about everything. Should I tell them that I sprained my finger in 6^th grade? Will they think I’m accident-prone? Do they need to know that I tried smoking once, but thankfully, wasn’t cool enough to pull it off? Or that I toyed with the idea of jumping out of an airplane? What I thought of as adventurous is now deemed reckless. I finally finished the application and sent it in—with a very large check. I was told that if I just paid the premium, it would help speed the application process along. So why does it feel like a bribe? Anyway, after that I foolishly thought I was done. Nope. Then I got a call from the carrier’s medical expert who proceeded to probe even further into my background. He wanted to know the exact dates I’d seen doctors and why. So I had the pleasure of calling my docs to gather that info. Now the process is complete and I’m waiting to hear. I put all my eggs in one insurance basket (how many checks can I write?) so if I get denied I’ll have to scramble to find a new taker. Wish me luck. I’ll be the one crossing the streets in a helmet until I get good news.

Not All Uggs are Created Equal

I agree with Jill. The Sherpa-style Uggs are horrid. They add at least three inches to the circumference of one’s calves, and as Jill said, who needs that? However, when I moved to Chicago and geared up for the first snow, I did make a beeline to the Ugg store to check out what seems to be part of The Windy City’s uniform. I tried on the ever-popular style and must admit they were unbelievably cozy. They felt like I’d left the house in my all-time favorite slippers. But then I looked in the mirror…. Ridiculous. There was no way I could justify buying these boots unless I was of Eskimo descent. But, after about an hour in the store, I did settle on a different pair. They’re black, tall and fairly chic. And you’d never even know they were a part of the Ugg family unless you spotted the logo on the back.

Ugg-ly

 Not him but equally horrifying

This morning, I was waiting for my train next to a very handsome guy, sort of an Andy Garcia circa When a Man Loves a Woman. Black wool coat, gray knit scarf, leather messenger bag, and then—ack, Uggs! The horror... I can usually be persuaded to accept most trends. I've embraced the Hunter boots (especially now that there's nine feet of snow melting into disgusting sludge puddles that look deceptively like asphalt). I tried bangs. I even own leggings. However I staunchly refuse to accept these Sherpa slippers as outdoor appropriate shoes. Please, someone tell me how these keep your feet dry. And why oh why would anyone want to wear any shoe that encourages cankles? And now that men are buying into this ridiculousness, I'm even more appalled. I applaud the Converse all-star if you need a comfy commuter shoe, but any man that wears these should be subjected to very harsh public mocking.

Call Me (or Don't)

 Ms. Quacker Factory

Anita, your post couldn't have come at a better time. With the craptacular weather, I've been spending a lot of quality time with the television and have become entranced with the Yoshiblade (yoshiblade.com which, scandal, it took me 3 OKs and Cancels to leave the page without ordering!). Not that I slice a lot of pineapples, tomatoes or hunks of juicy medium-rare meat, but I am learning to cook. And it'll be sharp forever! A former roommate used to whip up amazing things from soup to margaritas in the Magic Bullet (buythebullet.com), so I have seen the amazingness of As Seen on TV kitchen gadgets (I'm totes registering for this). Hence, while I want to tsk-tsk at the eye cream, I am in absolutely no position to judge. I too have ordered a health-and-beauty product from the TV (the actual name I can't remember, but no, it wasn't a sex aid, and the outcome will stay between me, the poor depressed-sounding customer service operator and my Chase card representative who had to help me get out of that monthly billing wormhole). I also have not one, but two, TWO, aunts who have a deep love for all things QVC, including at one time, The Quaker Factory. While my mom received several of their luxurious sweatshirts, I lucked out with jewelry from the Joan Rivers Collection which is actually kind of cute, but it can't suck up soda from the carpet, cut through a tin can or provide my pet a perfect place to pee indoors. So useless Joan.

My Eyes Are Looking Brighter!

My last post went on and on about how I’ve successfully navigated around the reality-show craze. Some might say that’s pretty impressive. But before you shower me with accolades (they’re coming, right?), there is something that did get the better of me. An infomercial. I’m embarrassed just typing the word, but let me defend myself. Daytime television is brutal. And if you like to keep the TV on for a little background noise, there’s no way you can escape the infomercial. Some classics include: The ad for Shake Weight® (www.shakeweight.com ). This product is so suggestive, you’ll want to take a shower after watching the demo. And then there’s the RoboStir™ (www.robostir.com ). Really? Are you so busy in the kitchen that you can’t take two seconds to stir the ingredients yourself? Another entertaining one is for Cami Secret (www.trycamisecret.com ). It’s essentially a dickie for women and it promises to make all of your low-cut shirts appropriate for work. Or, you could just dress appropriately for work. But the hands-down (no pun intended), most ridiculous one is for Handerpants™ (www.handerpants.com ), a pair of gloves that resemble men’s tighty-whities. The infomercial even gives an extensive list of customers the product is perfect for, such as night bloggers and curling enthusiasts. So after all my trash talk, you’re probably wondering which one of these gems finally sucked me in. Hydrolyze (www.hydrolyze.tv ), a magic jar that promises to diminish the dark circles under my eyes. It was all so believable. Pretty pictures of bright-eyed people… Convincing testimonials… A “risk-free trial” for the next 100 callers. When I called the number, I realized that I’d only heard the words “free trial”. An honest mistake, but I still pressed on. I gave my credit card number to the automated recording and even said “yes” to having my card charged every month, so I’d never be out of supplies. What a mess. After an hour on hold, I finally got myself out of most of it. But I couldn’t stop the delivery of the first three jars. So I’m using the product now, every night, and am convinced that I see a difference. After shelling out $200, I’m inclined to believe anything.

I Don't Do Cliffhangers

I’ve spent plenty of time in front of the TV over the past year. When you’re unemployed, the sound from your TV becomes your boss, your coworkers and your happy hour. So, you’d think I’d have a slew of reality shows on my must-watch roster. However, I’m proud to say that I remained strong and resisted the urge to get sucked into last year’s favorites. That’s not to say that I haven’t had my weak moments in the past. I was glued to the set for two seasons of Survivor and even watched a bit of Fear Factor. (However, once I witnessed contestants eating a pizza crawling with bugs, I immediately nixed that show from my life.) Biggest Loser grabbed my attention as well. The players’ transformations were truly amazing. But, like any modern viewer, I eventually wanted my gratification at a faster pace. I didn’t have the patience to wait three months to find out who couldn’t keep the pounds off and who shed half their weight. So, I ended my foray with reality shows and turned to what I call one-hour wrap-ups. CSI (any of them will do), Law & Order, Criminal Minds, Without a Trace...you get the picture. Turn on any of these shows and you’ve signed on for one hour of entertainment. One hour of your life and you’re fed the beginning, middle and end. Every once in a while, these shows will throw a “To Be Continued” up on the screen (and my reaction isn’t pretty), but for the most part I walk away with all of my questions answered. Speaking of questions, I am now wondering why Joan Rivers would even want a shower shot of her daughter. Sounds like a car crash. I’m going to do my best to look away.

Tawk to Me Joan!

Now I love movies as much as the next girl, but these days, I just can't commit the time (three hours for The King's Speech? Even if this sweeps the Oscars, I'll probably never see it). However, TV? Oh boob tube, how do I love thee! My tastes swing both high-brow and super low. I totally called it a year ago when Forrest Whitaker cameo'ed on Criminal Minds that he was getting a spinoff (which I want to start today. Right now. Immediately!). But against all my better judgement, I do loves me some trashy reality. I provide my own annoying soundtrack to every episode of Jersey Shore, exclaiming I can't believe I watch this filth. These people are horrible. The Situation brought home how much money last year?? Should be illegal. But yet, I watch every week. Now the one I will proudly support is Joan & Melissa which premieres tonight on the Bridezilla network, WE. Sneak previews show Joan trying to snap a cell pic of her daughter in the shower and the utter horror that's Melissa's reaction is television gold. Gold. I even got to interview Joan before which just solidified my love (www.vegasmagazine.com/culture/articles/hot-dame). And when they eventually do the full-Saturday marathon of all Joan & Melissa torture, funny how I'll surprisingly find the time.

Snow Runs Through My Veins

I love everything about winter. Bundling up in a cozy coat and braving the cold. Going for a run in the middle of a snow shower (the world just gets quiet). Scooping up snowballs and hurling them at unsuspecting friends. (I miss 80% of the time, so I still have these friends.) Winter just makes me happy. And I owe it all to Montana, where I spent the first 11 years of my life. I grew up playing in snowbanks taller than me. Every Halloween, I trick-or-treated in a foot of snow and when November came around, I spent my weekends on the slopes of Bridger Bowl. We dug tunnels in our backyard to create some pretty impressive igloos. And my sister and I would have slept in our frosty forts if my parents hadn’t been sticklers about sleeping inside the house at night. (We made up for it years later by overnighting at the IceHotel in the Arctic Circle.) And even though I moved from Montana after the 5^th grade, winter and I remained tight. Now I find myself in Chicago, experiencing my first winter in the Windy City. So far, it’s lived up to the hype. It’s cold…damn cold. And it’s wonderful. The wind truly does whip into a frenzy as it comes blowing off the lake. And when it snows, it sticks. Boots aren’t a fashion statement here. They help kick up the white stuff and create paths where sidewalks used to be. I happily do my part, trudging through the new snow while wandering around on a crisp winter day. And should my wandering lead me to a cozy tavern and a juicy burger, so be it (I wouldn’t exactly feel lost!). But is it my comfort food? No. What really brings me comfort is winter itself.

Nice Buns

In less than 24 hours, New York is reportedly set to be hit with the Snowapocalypse, part deux. While most Gothamites are already making plans to "work from home" or writing angry blogs about the city's prowess at plowing, me, I'm just dreaming of comfort food, particularly that very un-WeightWatchers friendly, cheeseburger (no judgement, JHud). Now unlike what Anita is most likely to say, I loathe cold almost as much as I loathe the aforementioned bus. But living north of the Mason Dixon Line means at some point during the year, I will indeed have to be chilly. When such an instance occurs, I dream of comfort foods, particularly the beloved burger. Now I've delved into diners and fast food like McDonald's (only if I'm starving and it's OK to be gassy later) to Smashburger (pretty awesome, actually) and every trendy burger bar in between. But my personal fave is from Old Town (45 E. 18th St. between Broadway and Park Avenue; oldtownbar.com). With dark wood booths (rejoice: no banquettes!) and awesome creaky upstairs, this joint just screams Locals Only! Granted, some celebs have bellied up to the bar and a few movie scenes have been filmed here (Carrie and Mr. Big in the first, less sucky Sex & The City movie, for one), but otherwise, it's got a manly vibe, hearty burgers and cold beer. And if I have that, well then, let it snow, let it snow.

Hear! Hear!

While in my opinion Molly Ringwald said it best in Sixteen Candles--"I loathe the bus. There has to be a more dignified mode of transportation"—I do agree that knowledge is power. It's probably why I harbor a major addiction to shows like CSI and Criminal Minds; they're all twists and turns (and cutie cops), but within one hour, I get the whodunnit. I'm never left hanging and I can sleep soundly knowing SSA Rossi and Dr. Reed have indeed solved the case. Just the other night I had dinner with a girlfriend whose first date with a new beau went, in her opinion, amazingly well. Seven days later, it's radio silence. I listened as she antagonized over if she misinterpreted what she took to be signs that all systems were go. Our answer? To realize we have no answer and go to see bull riding at the Garden. But we've all been there; resumes sent into the vortex of cyberspace, great dates that just peter out into nothingness, auditions, client proposals, story pitches—all things we put out there with high hopes and great effort that are often met with the Real World equivalent of crickets. I think our hatred of the unknowing can all be blamed on Generation Y. As kids, everyone got a trophy, a valentine, a hug and no one was picked last in that torturous rite of passage, Dodgeball. "It's not you, it's me." Well, sometimes, it is you and people revert to that Momism, if you can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all. But it's time we all, well, grow a pair. Tell me my resume sucks, you don't want to date me or that my cooking ain't all that and you're having a bag of chips. I'll most likely live. But the not knowing... until Gil Grissom handles relationship cases on an affordable hourly rate, I'm just not down with the mystery.

Just Give Me a Little Info

I love taking the bus in Chicago and I’d like to take this moment to thank the city for making it such a pleasant experience. I know what you’re thinking, “Seriously, is this all she has to write about?” But, stay with me. When I leave my apartment, I walk one block to the bus stop, wait one short minute and, low and behold, a bus pulls up. Every time. Gone are the days of standing in a downpour willing the bus to arrive before I’m properly soaked. How is this possible? Because the transit authority puts a GPS in every bus. You can simply go online to find out when the next bus will arrive at your stop. Brilliant. No more exacerbated sighs or grunts of frustration from people waiting at the stop. It’s just a gathering of a calm and collected crew because the City of Chicago decided to give us a little information. Another case and point: At one time or another, we’ve all sat on a runway for hours aboard a painfully delayed flight. Fifteen minutes turn into 30 minutes turn into an hour. What makes the wait worse is the seemingly interminable amount of time that goes by before Captain Full Head Of Hair With Mustache doles out a little information. The frustration among the passengers is palpable. But once we get the announcement—“Well Folks, we’re still waiting for the wing to be reattached. We appreciate your continued patience and hope to be on our way in the next 20 minutes.”—the tension in the cabin dissipates. All because of a little information. So, for those of you out there who are the keepers of the information, I’m asking you to give it up. Please tell me you’re still interviewing candidates and don’t expect to make a decision for a couple of weeks. Or, tell me the kitchen’s backed up and my dinner will be out shortly. Or, that the next bus is arriving in five minutes. Your information takes the frustration out of waiting.

Loosen Up Those Purse Strings!

I took a different approach to the New Year and dropped some serious cash yesterday on a new coat and boots. I keep hearing about “Chicago’s brutal winters” so I bought one of those sleeping bag–like coats from The North Face and a pair of snug Uggs. (Bring it, Chicago). It was quite a hefty bill for someone currently collecting an unemployment check. So how did I justify the purchase? By applying the Domino Effect. I envisioned my sales clerk, the lucky recipient of my commission money, heading over to Macy’s and buying a fabulous new purse. The next day, she takes the purse out for a test drive and it catches the attention of more buyers. Soon after, Macy’s sees an influx of sales in their purse department and someone from their PR team fires off an email to a magazine editor boasting the popularity of said purse. The purse is then featured in the magazine and Macy’s sales continue to soar. So much so that their advertising manager decides to place a few ads in said magazine. The magazine starts to grow due to their ad sales and before you know it, they’re adding head count to keep up with the work. And just like that, I’ve got my next job. Okay, maybe it’s a bit far-fetched, but when I’m living in a state that boasts an unemployment rate of 9.6%, a girl’s gotta dream. Chicago’s currently shopping around for a new mayor. I think it goes without saying that the candidate who’s all about infusing the economy with cash will get my vote. Don’t get me wrong. I find Jill’s plan to save admirable and smart. But once she’s socked away some rainy-day dough, I’m hoping she’ll loosen up her purse strings. I hear Macy’s is having a sale….

Show me the money!

As we all go full steam ahead into the New Year, most of us do so with a list of resolutions we probably won't keep past this week's Jersey Shore premiere. I'm starting 2011 with a commitment to S.M.D., aka Save My Dough. And I have a feeling many of my fellow New Yorkers will find my new mantra 2 Good, 2 B, 4 Gotten. Last year's election got a hearty infusion of both fun and common sense courtesy of Jimmy McMillan's The Rent is Too Damn High Party (because the rent IS too damn high). Governor Cuomo, who took a 5% paycut his first week on the job, shares the (I'm assuming rent-stabilized) Albany manse with First Girlfriend Sandra "Semi-Homemade" Lee. Hence, I'm prepared for this administration to promote coupon clipping and Costco chic. On my morning commute, New Yorkers stood in a monster line to buy the new fare-increased Metrocards with plastic while the "Pay Cash" line at the booth had a mere four peeps (dumb, da-dumb, dumb, dumb). Sample sales are ravaged like rabid wolves while the luxury department store I was in last weekend was more than happy to ply me with Perrier and treats just to keep me there a few minutes longer ('cause no one was spending $60 for a Jessica Simpson bangle bracelet). Give me coupons or give me death! will be 2011's rallying cry on Manhattan. The only thing I'm willing to cough up is my two cents. Actually, that I'm more than happy to thrust on you (really, whether you asked for it or not).