This week has been really fun at work. Pregnancy hormones have made me do things I normally wouldn’t do, like storm dramatically out of conversations, leave angry voice mails and shout things from behind velvet ropes like, “Mr. President, you don’t have to listen to them if they’re telling you not to talk to me.”
Okay, so even though that last one was kind of a joke, I still actually did it, and I’ve still spent the week talking to shadows, convincing people to talk who don’t want to talk, invoking paternal instincts and otherwise implementing manipulative devices to find out what really happened in particular situations.
For those who didn’t know, I get off on that kind of stuff. And everybody’s probably lying to me, but I can totally suspend reality on my blog.
I even found myself engaging in the semi-weekly, “…maybe I AM WAY TOO AWESOME to change careers,” when the management called a mandatory meeting so health representatives could explain mid-year changes to our benefit package. It was described as “one of the largest increases I’ve seen, quite frankly,” by one of the drones whose job it is to travel the state and explain to people what their health benefit changes look like.
Apparently, we have to contribute 7 percent more out of our paychecks for a plan where the deductible (which I met before the end of January, thankyouverymuch ladyparts) had increased by 200 percent, and where the co-pays have nearly doubled.
You cannot raise a family under these kinds of circumstances.
Oh, Journalism. We have fun. But you’re not marriage material.
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