I hate to admit it but lately I’ve begun praying to the porcelain God (my piggy bank). I’m on Medicaid for the first time in my life. I qualify because my income has been reduced to intermittent unemployment checks, which is a story of unbelievable incompetence on the part of New York State. They owe me for eleven weeks from last year—three from the spring and eight from the fall. Over the course of the ten months I’ve been unemployed, I’ve called hundreds of times to no avail from my old-fashioned Snoopy phone. On the three separate occasions that I have gotten through to an actual human, no claim agent was able to unravel the mystery of why I’d gotten benefits certain weeks and not others.
Snoopy phone, circa 1985
And after waiting on hold to frustrating music for over fifty-one minutes each time, praying I would not get disconnected and hoping for a fairy godmother of sorts to release the missing weeks, the agents eventually decided to transfer me since my situation needed management approval. Of course no manager ever picked up and I was abruptly disconnected and unable to call back.
Anyway, my new FREE (but not very comprehensive) medical coverage kicked in last week and even without a new ID card, I was able to go online and search for doctors and make my first appointment. I’m having my teeth cleaned and x-rays taken for the low low price of zero! Sorry Dr. Bob who I’ve been going to for the past thirty years. I also left messages with four random shrinks for some complimentary therapy, but so far none of them have called me back. I can’t wait to rant for a full hour each week about my unanswered unemployment calls! And then I can slowly pepper in my pending move, dwindling bank account and incessant doom scrolling habit. At this point I could probably keep a team of trained therapists busy for a few years.
The news today was flooded with talk of invoking the 25th Amendment to remove the Angry Orange Cheeto from office. Now there’s a reason to smile and show off my soon to be freshly cleaned bicuspids. And Trump was banned from Facebook and Instagram indefinitely! Praise be! (I guess I’ve been watching too much of The Handmaid’s Tale and I’ve started incorporating their sayings into my everyday life. I’m on season three already and I’m loath to finish since it’s been such a welcome escape from my uneventful days of job hunting and digital rejection letters. Handmaid centers around a majorly disturbing concept and I must admit that I have massive anxiety during most episodes, but the acting is phenomenal, and I feel like she needs me to make sure that she’s ok and that she gets out. If you’ve seen the rest of the season, don’t tell me what happens!) And by the way… of course I can’t afford Hulu. We watch on Michael’s account when we are together, and I’ve even gotten him into the show. (I know. Don’t you just love him already, too?)
I’m glad today is almost over. I did some grocery shopping in New Jersey. The allure of unlimited free plastic bags and cheaper prepared food is so alluring. I’m exhausted from the excursion. I used to be able to work out with a trainer at 6am, put in a full day at the office including running around to meetings, having a business lunch appointment, squeezing in an errand or two while I’m out and even attending an industry function after business hours. I’d hit the grocery store on my way home, make calls to family, read magazines, and throw in a load of laundry all before my midnight bedtime. Now the simple act of opening my eyes before 11am is sometimes all I can manage.
Tomorrow I’m meeting P to do our miles in Central Park about 10am. She’s both my training partner and de facto therapist until one of those free doctors decides to call me back. Michael should be here about dinner time and is staying for the weekend. Praise be.
jenslittleblackbook.com 