A billing person from the hospital just called to do some pre-registration paperwork over the phone. While I still have to go in next Friday for the complete work-up (blood work, medical history, etc), this was supposed to save me time.
(I also want to refer you to the blog entry I wrote after getting the chip in my window repair. That insurance agent had the misfortune of asking me what state I was in when the accident happened; I said, "Coherent." She said (after a very long pause), "No...Nevada?")
This agent went through the basic questions like name as it appears on my driver's license, current address ("No, we've moved..."), insurance ID number, and then she says, "Marital status?"
To which I replied (after again, a long pause), "Happy?"
(Mind you, I was frantically scanning my brain for a better word while thinking, "Well, he doesn't cook, which is so annoying, and there have been some heated negotiations around division of labor in the home, and I was kind of a major nag there for awhile, but overall, I'd say we are happy. Content? Pleased? Maybe not vitalized or vivacious, but we do have a young son. And kids are a ton of work and can add stress to a household.")
Don't you wish you could see inside my head?
She, too, paused. And then said finally, "Aw. That's sweet. I'll put you down as 'married.'"
Argh! Curse you, MFT training!