The year of the rat, according to my Chinese buffet placemat, began for me near the beer-lacquered dance floor at Sally's near the University of Minnesota. To christen the vaunted turn-of-the-calendar in especially classy style, I, a few friends and many, many strangers toasted one another with bubble-less champagne in plastic Dixie cups.
The real cherry on the sundae was the familiar cone-shaped party hat everyone was wearing, because nothing says "I'm having a good time" like an over-sized paper towel tube crowning your head with a rubber band muzzled under your chin. I even took it a step further and sported a groovy arm sling for my recently dislocated shoulder - an injury that I would later learn was an appropriate segue into '08.
Fortunately, I prepared myself for this frivolity by taking four vicodin - precisely as directed on the bottle - to numb the pain (and the senses) and washing them down with beer and bubble-less champagne - precisely NOT as the bottle directed. The combination did not equal fun; rather, the two depressants equated to being shot with horse tranquilizers while listening to soothing ocean sounds and being hypnotized.
I'm still not religious, but I am closer to believing that there is a God and s/he sent me a trial issue of "Life in 2008" for New Year's to prepare me for my full-year subscription.
It turns out that the full prescription bottle of narcotic pain-killers is not meant to see you through the pain of injury - my shoulder returned to almost-normal function soon enough - but instead serve to ease the torture of medical and insurance bills. If you've never been to the emergency room or had an extended hospital visit, here's how the patient (customer)--doctor (extortionist) transaction works:
In no particular order, you receive a bill for your visit to the emergency room, then a bill for the physician who, after several hours, confirms you have a dislocated shoulder, and then you receive a third bill for the inevitable follow-up hospital visit - because once the emergency is taken care of, you have to get more sound, detailed medical attention. Of course there's another bill for the follow-up physician, but I don't want to pile on.
To me, this whole setup seems silly. It's like going to a restaurant, paying to get in, then paying the waiter and cook for their service, and then paying again for the food. What?
Now, if you're smart, you've been making regular payments for health insurance for just such an occasion. But what's discouraging is that the insurance you've been buying and buying - over and over, and never using - doesn't totally cover the costs, so you can expect to be out a couple hundred dollars for your reckless behavior playing boot hockey on New Year's Eve.
Thankfully, I DID have insurance through the University. So I paid my couple hundred and went in for my follow-up. I was told I needed an MRI, a fairly costly procedure. Good thing I had medical insurance, right? Well, that insurance was for Adam-the-student and I was now Adam-the-graduate. The University's generous post-graduation, medical grace period kept me covered until January 19. My MRI could be scheduled, at the earliest (do you see it coming?) January 20.
"Ooh, thanks for playing life in the real world, better luck next time. Feel free to keep the rest of your vicodin as a consolation prize."
Now that whole experience gave me an epiphany. I devised a radically innovative new insurance plan. I call it the Jar plan, here's how it works: Every month you put a $20-bill in the jar along with any loose change you've accumulated along the sidewalk, in the dryer, or underneath the couch. Then - and here's the cool part - when you get a bump on the noggin or yank your left arm out of socket so it hangs cockneyed next to your ribs, you use the money from the jar to pay all the bills! You're covered, no exceptions! Plus, you can cater the plan to your own lifestyle; you could make it the Bucket plan, or the Jug plan, or even the Dusty Suitcase in the Corner of the Closet plan. The possibilities are endless.
Anyhoo, despite that and some emotional PMS, I was optimistic about Rat-year. I had landed a job as a sportswriter for an upstart website - an amazing opportunity that suited me perfectly. In fact, I was working on a story for the site one day when the Fates decided to give me another little 'How's Your Father?'
I had logged two weeks researching for this piece and spent five straight hours writing it - all on deadline. I was using an old, OLD, hand-me-down laptop to write on and when I got up to stretch and (do you see it coming?) I knocked the power cord clear out. Although I'd saved dozens of times, this old, old, rickety, old, dirty, crappy, old junk box lost the entire story. I can't describe it, I don't like to think about it, but I went just a little bit insane for about 20 minutes.
In an attempt to "recover lost data," I went to a computer specialist. Since every reputable computer outfit closes on Sunday - and this WAS a Sunday - I took my old, old crap box to an eccentric and none-too-personable young man who worked out of the storage area behind a photo studio. After sweeping Coke cans and pizza boxes off his desk - I kid you not - this eccentric young man proceeds to tell me, over the course of three hours, how he planned to reform and revitalize the progressives in America to systematically overthrow the "Republican Machine" while maintaining the sanctity of our most precious Amendment - The Right to Bear Arms.
Long story short - it cost $130, I thought he was going to kill me, his name was Barry. And I never got my story back.
Excuse me, I need to get a drink of water and go pee...
OK, I'm back. Well January blew. Maybe February would be better; it did start off unseasonably warm. It was so nice that I decided to change the oil in my truck. I had a little trouble sliding under and noticed that my left tire needed air. So I filled it up, jacked the truck up (again) and slid under.
Tssssssssss...
All that nice, fresh air I just pumped was hissing into my face. Using my highly tuned automotive sense, I surmised that the giant metal bolt jutting out of the tread was the culprit. Then, after discovering that my truck had been equipped with the wrong-size spare, I coughed up 50 bucks to have the hole plugged.
But I did get the oil changed. And lucky for me, because it got super-duper, mother-f--kin', balls-in-your-throat cold about a week later.
During this cold snap I took to starting my truck and letting it warm up before driving. One morning, I made a good breakfast, showered, danced a little in the living room, and left myself just enough time to let the truck heat up before I had to leave for work. Being an intelligent human being, I removed my house key from the key chain so I could start my car and still lock the front door before I left.
I opened the car door but didn't sit down - I just wormed myself in enough to start it up. I had to brace one hand against the door-side armrest and feel around for the ignition with the other hand. I found it, turned the key - the engine SLOWLY groaned to life - slammed the door closed and ran back inside.
I danced a little more, grabbed a snack, then locked the door and hopped out to my toasty truck. I flexed on some gloves, reached for the door handle (do you see it coming?) and yanked brazenly on the door, which didn't budge.
In an instant I understood everything and accepted nothing.
No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. My story, my computer, my shoulder, my tire, my bills - no. My truck is running, I can see my keys; I'm supposed to be sitting in my truck. No, no, no.
I stared at the lock for a good five minutes before giving up opening the door with my mind. I was too exhausted to get really upset again, so I went to the sliding rear window and tried knocking lightly to release the latch inside. Nothing. Then I knocked a little harder, a little harder, a little harder, a little harder. Then I knocked as hard as I dared to knock on a glass window. Nothing. Then I pulled back and punched out the whole damned thing and birthed myself into the cab.
The only thing worse than the frozen wind whipping through my truck as I drove down the highway was the ass-full of broken glass I received on my way to work.
So here I am now. Mercifully, February is almost over - who knows what March will bring?
Of course it hasn't all been bad, but it mostly has and it's all funnier than the good stuff. Anyway, there's more to come I'm sure, and I promise you'll be the first to know.
Year of the Rat indeed.
