Have I been here lately? I can’t remember. My life is spinning a little out of control, in a good way of course. (More about that later this week. If you’re lucky.)
First of all, you should know that I took my son’s dead iPod to Best Buy. I had purchased replacement insurance back in December–the salesperson told me it would cover “any damage.” At least that’s what I recall because why would I purchase insurance that didn’t cover accidental damage when the iPod was destined for accidental damage in the possession of my careless son? Anyway, the girl behind the counter said, “And what’s wrong with it?” and I said, “It went through the wash. I washed it. In the washing machine.”
And she said, “Um, that’s not covered.”
“Not covered? What is the point of insurance? What does it cover?”
“Well, if the screen went blank or the hard-drive crashed.”
I said, “Well, in that case, the screen went blank and the hard-drive crashed.”
She made an exception for me since I didn’t know the rules. Wasn’t that nice of her? And then I refused her offer to buy another insurance policy for the replacement iPod.
* * *
My 5-year old daughter poked herself in the eye with her finger this afternoon. I was standing nearby, folding socks, when she injured herself. She was mostly okay the rest of the afternoon, but while playing games with her daddy before bedtime, she excused herself three times to go lay down and rest. Then she’d come back: “I’m okay now,” and play awhile longer. At bedtime, she came in crying, her eyelid and cheek reddened . . . I examined her eyeball and it was barely bloodshot. I am hoping that a night of sleep will cure all that ails her.
I still can’t believe she inexplicably poked her own eyeball. How does that happen?
* * *
I stuck the new car tab onto the license plate today. Then, ever responsible, I replaced the old car registration with the new car registration. I checked the insurance card, too, and found it woefully out of date. This discovery propelled me through all the paperwork on my desk, on my kitchen counter and in the handy basket in the kitchen that catches all the mail that can’t be immediately discarded.
I never found the insurance card. Maybe it’s hidden somewhere in the glove compartment? I surrender. At least the new card is due in March. Until then, we will be on extra good behavior so the police have no reason to pull us over and demand to see our proof of insurance. (I haven’t had a ticket in fifteen years.)
How about you? When was the last time the police pulled you over? Don’t you hate that moment when you realize the flashing lights in your rearview mirror are flashing at you? Tell us all about how you broke the law. Come on. You know you want to. Confession is good for the soul . . . and far better than a sharp stick (or a finger) in the eye.