Caution: Guts Being Hated Ahead

I hate insurance. I hate insurance companies . . . particularly their guts. This is harsh, but it is making me feel a little better. I am beginning to believe that the CEO of our company is actually Gargamel. Or maybe Prince Humperdinck. Sombody diobolical.

I'd like to make our insurance company stand in line for three hours in the Gobi Desert to wait for water and then when it got to the front of the line I'd say "Sorry Insurance Company, you have the wrong ID number." And when it got the right ID number and waited three more hours in the desert, I'd say "Sorry Insurance Company, but you have to get pre-approval to drink water."
And then I would laugh maniacally.

It might make me feel better to go to the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale. Shopping is probably cheaper than therapy anyway, especially since the odds of the insurance company covering therapy are slim to none.

Or trying these on might make take me to a happy place.

Or these.

And yes, mom. Alice birthday pictures are forthcoming. As soon as Michael comes home with the camera (which may be tonight, or three days from now. You never know.)