What's up doc? Costs! But I love 'em.

The following statement has nothing to do with writing or whatever it is I claim to do here, but I love going to the doctor. More than a year has passed since I visited any sort of medicine woman, that is, until today. After leaving my parents' insurance plan for my own, I've been unwilling to find new doctors. I've had the same physician and dentist forever back in Buffalo. I'm no doctor slut. It takes time to move onto someone new. Oh poop. Wow, I’m totally lying right now. I visited the dermatologist a few months ago because I thought I had melanoma. Diagnosis? Dirt. I digress. The point of all this is, I have returned to the health care world and I am thrilled.

A future of hypochondria awaits me. I feel so loved at the doctor. They (they because I like going to University of Pittsburgh clinics because a resident or med student also accompanies the head doctor-- the more the merrier) ask how I'm feeling, gently touch me, congratulate me on not smoking, etc. It's a delightful half-naked experience.

But health care isn't all fun and games, is it? No, sir. Appropriately, as I drove to the doctor's office this morning, former president Bill Clinton was talking on NPR about global health care and health insurance in America. Man, what a mess. Insurance, not Billy. We pay the highest income percent (16%) for health care out of every country in the world. You know what? I can deal with that (and I like to think I'm in a position to talk; 30% of my income from one job goes solely to my health insurance which I rarely use). I'm fine with that statistic because we probably have the best health care in the world. What I will never agree with is the job/health insurance connection. Because, well, kids don't work. I know there are community clinics, but it still seems disgraceful to me that it is so easy for children to be health insurance-free. And independent insurance is so expensive, as are medical costs, ugh.

When I was switching insurances, I made the mistake of going to the dermatologist before my new plan kicked in. For a 10 minute meeting where the dermy told me I had scum on my skin, not cancer, I paid $150. Yikes. The little people can't afford that. Although the little people can probably tell mud from a lesion. Oops.

In other news, I think I should undergo training from mandakay or Beedow to help me become a better blogger. I never post and always leave snotty comments. A and B seem to excel in blogging etiquette.