Had I known renewing my life insurance was going to be such a pain in the ass, I would have joined the Army. Apparently, now that I have a few gray hairs popping out in random places, joining our military is easier than leaving my child a small winfall, lest I throw myself under a bus.
But wait. According to the traveling nurse who dropped by, life insurance doesn't kick in if I throw myself under a bus, so my kid's stuck with me. In fact, one of the 1,468 stupid questions was: "Have you ever committed suicide?" Yes, dickwad, just after I found out I had an enlarged prostate, but I'm back. It's a miracle.
And so I ask, "Define drinks". It's been a bad week for drinks. My stepmother was in town and it was like an Irish wake everyday around here. Plus, we tucked into the spicy Caesars at White Point and we had lobster the night before the nurse came-a-callin'. My veins were a mixture of melted butter, Pinot Grigio, and vodka. Lord knows what would surface in my urine. Likely an olive. I was fucked.
So I continued, "Define glass". Are we talkin' the Winnie the Pooh juice glass I take to the bathtub, or the large, stemmed fishbowl that holds half a bottle of the House Red – because if that's the case – I only have two glasses a day. Unless of course it's been a bad day, in which case the box is up on the counter and I'm sucking plonk out of the spout.
I first bought life insurance the day after Swissair made a fatal pit-stop near Peggy's Cove. A nervous flyer, no amount of alcohol or drugs can calm my nerves, so instead, I take it out on the stewardess, er, flight attendant. I figure they hate me as much as I hate flying, so I spend my time messing with their perfectly-coiffed heads. It takes my mind off death, and I love it when they go all pinchy faced when I say things like, "So, I guess that whole Secretarial College thing didn't work out". The minute we touched down on that first post-disaster flight, I raced for an insurance office and stocked up on Term Life. At least if I went down in a spiraling Airbus clutching the throat of the bitter sky pig who ignored my request for a hot towel and a piccolo of champagne, Jack could throw a party.
But that was then. Now that I am in my 40's and apparently on death row, the list of medical conditions that send a red flare to head office include the trendy ones like cancer and heart disease. But cramps, homesickness, commitmentphobia, actually anything that ends with "phobia", fear of clowns, menopause, allergies, perimenopause, obesity, and fear of beating to death old people who decide to use all their thin Centennial dimes to pay for the jug of Metamucil in the grocery store line up, – are all considered a black mark on your chart. Add illegal drug use, all of the "phrenias", hatred of small children, French people, cheap people, and I may as well leave my teeth under the hospital pillow with a note that says, "That'll teach you for weighing ten pounds and ripping me a new one. Get an education. Love Mommy."
So, I sit and wait to hear if I have coverage. The good news is – now that I am considered old – I am also a CAA member. The two really have nothing in common, but I always assumed CAA was for gin-soaked old people going nowhere in their Buick because cataracts had them holding their TripTik upside down. Today, I have a CAA Membership that gives me discounts on travel, shoes, dining, automotive needs, Pete's Frootique, even insurance. Member Savings vary from province-to-province, state-to-state, and you don't even need that big CAA sticker on your bumper that says, "MY OTHER CAR IS A HEARSE."
With any luck, the good folks at the insurance company will look beyond my lab results, weight-to-height ratio and family history of just plain crazy, and consider only the good die young – and that this particular card-carrying asshole could be around for a very, very long time.
For insurance, cheaper shoes, a discount on Cow's Ice Cream, and more, check out: www.caa.ca.
For stewardess or nurses costumes try Boutilier's Costume Rentals, 211 Windmill Road in Dartmouth. 902.464.3536. www.costumesrus.net