Lisa Scottoline - Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog - The Amazing Adventures of an Ordinary Woman

Insurance is fun. I don’t mean health insurance, because health insurance is never fun. But for some reason, car insurance is a laugh riot.

Here’s what I mean.

Amazingly enough, I have never been in an accident, if you don’t count my two marriages.

For all this time, I’ve been paying lots of dough in car insurance, in the hope that someday I’ll get creamed and it will pay off. But so far, no good.

I made my first claim ten years ago, when this happened: I used to have a gate at the end of my driveway, and when I left, I’d get out of the car, open the gate, and drive through, then close it behind me. One day, I stopped the car, got out, and opened the gate, but before I could get back in, a gust of wind came from nowhere and blew the gate into my car, denting it while I stood by and used profanity.

I put in a claim, to finally get my money’s worth from my car insurance, but they said that I wasn’t covered for hitting my gate.

I disagreed. “I didn’t hit my gate. My gate hit me.”

Silence, from the other end of the phone.

“I have a point, you know.”

And I won, which means that, after my deductible, they paid me $38, and I had only $1,328,373,730.92 left to get my money’s worth. Perhaps if you have a swinging gate, I could park nearby.

That’s why I was delighted last month when I was driving on the highway and suddenly heard a loud pock, and five miles later, noticed a crack in my windshield. Five miles after that, the crack extended several jagged inches, and five after that, it looked like a sales chart in a bad year.

Yay!

I was so happy I could make another claim. Mind you, my second in thirty years. So I called the insurance company. “Remember me? This time, a rock hit me, and I need a new windshield. Am I covered?”

“Yes, of course.” She proceeded to tell me that I could get a new windshield from one of three places, which sounded like Clem’s Windshields, Windshields R’ Us, and Just Windshields.

I didn’t like that. “But I want the same windshield. Can’t I just take it back to the dealer?”

“No, you have to use our approved vendors.”

“What is this, an HMO for cars? If so, I want Personal Choice.”

“Okay, but that’ll cost you more.”

“Isn’t $1,328,373,730.92 enough?”

Silence, from the other end of the phone.

Life insurance is even more fun. I pay lots of dough every month, but I never seem to die. Then last month, the agent called to tell me that my life insurance policy was about to “convert.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but the bottom line was that the insurance I’ve had all this time is about to end, because now I’m old enough to need it.

Thanks.

I gather my demise wasn’t in the original deal, which was that I would pay lots of dough every month for no earthly reason, even though I was healthy as a horse and in no danger of harm from anything except gates and rocks.

They call that term insurance, but I think they should call it joke insurance. They sold it to me because they knew I wouldn’t need it. They were only joking.

So now I have to buy new life insurance, which will cost me triple what the old insurance cost, because I have sprung various and sundry leaks. They call this whole life insurance because it will cost me my whole life. Unless I die tomorrow, in which case the joke is on them.

Cross your fingers.

Honestly, it’s worth it to me. Strike me dead. Bring it, now. I want my epitaph to read, SHOW ME THE MONEY.

So I began investigating new life insurance policies, which is when the agent told me that I needed disability insurance, too. When I asked why, she answered, “Because you make your living using your brain.”

“Thank you,” I replied. Evidently, she doesn’t read me. “So what’s your point?”

“If you incurred brain damage, you couldn’t work, and that’s why you need disability insurance.”

I disagreed. I didn’t think anything could damage my brain more than thinking about insurance does. “I could work if I hurt my arm.”

“True.”

“I could work if I hurt my leg.”

“Also true,” she said. “But what if you were in a car accident?”

“I’ve never had a car accident. Gates and rocks are gunning for me, but that’s not the same thing.”

“Then you’re very lucky.”

I disagreed. “I bought car insurance and life insurance and now you want me to buy disability insurance. I paid thousands of dollars for decades, for no conceivable reason. You call that lucky? Should I buy flood insurance, even though I live on a hill? Or planet insurance, for when Mars attacks? Or third marriage insurance, in case I lose my mind again?”

Silence, from the other end of the phone.

These are confusing times to be alive, biologically speaking. All manner of shenanigans are going on at DNA level, so many I can’t keep up with all them all. I rely on People magazine to keep me abreast of the latest science news, and I was amazed by its article on the pregnant man.

You may have heard about him, a transgendered male who is six months pregnant. I couldn’t figure out from the story which equipment he was born with, and by the middle of the story, I didn’t care. The headline read, HE’S HAVING A BABY, and that was enough for me. A man can get pregnant?

This is one great idea, if you ask me.

I mean, why not?

My pregnancy involved a fifty-pound weight gain, water retention, chubby ankles, and a weird rash on my belly that itched like crazy. Pregnant, I was no Demi Moore on the cover of Vanity Fair. I wasn’t even Christina Aguilera on the cover of Marie Claire. Or Britney Spears on the cover of Bazaar. Pregnant, I should have been on the cover of This Old House.

If men want to get pregnant, I say, be my guest. So what if the photos look funny, with a mustache and a pregnant belly? It wouldn’t be the first time. I come from a proud line of mustachioed women.

Don’t split hairs.

In fact, I’m encouraging all you men out there to get pregnant, right away. Give your marriage a boost. Do your wife a favor. You’ve probably got a pretty long Honey-Do list sitting on the kitchen counter, waiting for you. I bet that, in most households, HAVE BABY FOR ME would shoot right up to numero uno. You wouldn’t have to take out the trash or mow the lawn for the rest of your life.

And think of the guilt you could inflict! Men getting pregnant makes much more sense, especially when it comes to delivery. Men are man enough to give birth, by definition. In fact, men probably wouldn’t bat an eye. I bet if you put them in front of a TV during playoff season, they wouldn’t even notice they were in labor. Women could get them ice chips for their beer and run downfield with the receiving blanket, and men could pop the babies out like footballs.

Score!