Archive for September, 2009

Get to the Back of the Line and Open Your Wallet

I’ve been thinking about the ongoing national debate about health insurance and trying to frame my thoughts from the perspective of a single woman in keeping with the mission of “Call Me Miss.”

Twenty years ago, the college where I worked paid for my health insurance.  All of it.  In fact, all eligible employees who were single had one hundred percent of their premium covered, while employees electing a “family plan” had a generous but not total portion of their premium employer-paid.  “What a deal for singles!” you’re probably thinking, and you are half right. It was a great deal, but it was an inequitable one…for singles.  You see, in terms of employee compensation and employer cost, the family subsidy was significantly higher in real terms, a much larger benefit, than the subsidy provided singles.  Employees who were married or who had kids or both were automatic recipients of higher compensation packages than the single professors who taught in the adjoining classrooms or the staff who held identical positions.

Insurance costs skyrocketed in the early nineties, a situation that threw many an employer into a tizzy and that spurred the Clinton administration’s efforts to reform the insurance industry.  Clinton’s effort, after much floundering, foundered.  In the meantime, employers struggling to cope with annual increases to insurance costs that were in the neighborhood of twenty-five percent, needed to staunch the hemorrhaging in their budgets.  What to do? What to do?

After much number-crunching, trend analyses, and meetings, meetings, meetings, a brilliant solution was identified and quickly implemented: eliminate one hundred percent coverage for single employees!  Problem solved.  Why, oh why, didn’t we think of it sooner?!

Over the next twenty years, the employer-paid portion of health insurance for single employees was reduced four more times. It was an easy go-to place to find quick cash in the operating budget, even during the years when annual premium increases dropped out of the stratosphere to modest single-digits and, for a few years, were flat.  In fairness, during this time, the family subsidy was also decreased; however not as often and not as sharply.

It was during this period that the college also introduced coverage for unmarried “domestic partners” (gay or straight) and for “families of two”—i.e., a less expensive family plan for childless married couples or a single parent with one kid. In order to fund these wonderful programs, singles were told to pay more so others could enjoy a new benefit.  Social equity, at nobody’s expense…except the singles’.  Even now it fills me with rage.  Think about it, and think about it hard: self-declared “partners,” not married but enjoying marital relations, are eligible for insurance coverage. A single person living with a blood relative is not entitled TO PURCHASE the same coverage for the relative, even though the number of persons involved is exactly the same and a significant, socially sanctioned relationship exists.

If there were ever discrimination on the basis of sex, this is it!  Employer: You gettin’ any? Employee: Yeah!  I just moved in with my girlfriend.  Employer: Great…sign here and you and your honey will be insured!  Employee: My sister has come to live with me; she’s not working. May I sign up for “familes of two”  insurance?  Employer: You gals doin’it? Employee: Uh, no. Employer:  Sorry.  No can do.

I sound like a bitter, self-centered bitch, don’t  I? And what’s this tale of woe got to do with the Baucus bill, Obamacare, a public option, or anything else you want to throw into the debate?  To me, the answer to that question is blindingly simple: Unintended consequences.  Collateral damage.  Society’s priorities.  Call it whatever you want, but you can bet your ass that when a bill is finally hammered out and signed and a million new regulations and guidelines are written, the biggest loser will be the single person.  It just makes too much cents to have it be otherwise.

Family Guy Values

Seth MacFarlane, creator of Family Guy, was profiled by Deborah Solomon in the September 13 New York Times Magazine.  MacFarlane’s smart-ass answers to Solomon’s fatuous questions were something of a tour de force, and they got me thinking, yet again, why a spinster of a certain age, snobbish about many things, conservative/libertarian in her politics should find Family Guy so hilarious.

Before I lose you, let me make clear my bona fides: I think Aristophanes is a hoot.  I get the joke about my Uncle Toby’s hobby-horse.  There are parts of Ulysses I think are laugh-out-loud funny. I’ve tittered my way through countless adventures of Guy Noir.  In short, I have a pretty finely honed sense of the comic and the absurd.

So maybe it’s my Hobbesian view of life—solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short—that commends Family Guy to me.  Certainly the Griffins’ Spooner Street world is straight out of Hobbes: knock on any door and you’re likely to find a satyr, a pedophile, a murderous schoolteacher, an evil monkey.  Suburban Providence never seemed so dark.

In this bleak landscape, one hears a variety of sounds: the cartoon is perhaps the most musical show on television, whether it’s an infant-doggie duet reminiscent of a Hope-Crosby tune or snippets of Woody-nominated porno background themes or a peppy version of “The Spirit of Massachusetts,” Family Guy integrates music into the plot lines in a manner as seamless as it is informative.  Even the closing credits are played out in a singular variation of the show’s theme music.  Genius.

Who am I trying to kid?  I adore Family Guy because it is utterly, irredeemably crude and lewd—the stuff a thirteen-year-old boy’s joke book is made of.  Patriarch Peter Griffin announces that he’s gotta get to the toilet in a big hurry because, “I’m crowning here!”  Brainy lush Brian the talking dog wakes himself from a sound sleep with the trumpet blare of his own flatulence.  Son Chris casually sticks his finger up his nose in a way that suggests the habit is inveterate.

Then there are the sex jokes, often but not always at the expense of women: they’re just as likely to touch on masturbation, remaining true as they do to the adolescent’s lifestyle.

Best of all though is the good old-fashioned cartoon violence of the kind that brightened my Saturday morning when I was kid.  Before America went completely schizoid about violence—if Quentin Tarantino does it, it’s art, but if Wiley Coyote does it, time to call the censors—a kid could get a vicarious belly full of gratuitous pratfalls (generally off mile-high cliffs) or anvil-induced head trauma.  You could almost smell the singed fur when Tom the cat was fried by a Jerry-wielded  toaster wire.  At the end of each cartoon, mayhem forgotten, the unharmed adversaries would walk off into the sunset.  But then some know-it-all decided kids were too stupid to distinguish cartoons from real life.  And the Smurfs were born.  Yuck.

Each time a Family Guy character flies through a plate glass window, takes a header off a skyscraper, brains a spouse with a frying pan or indulges in cannibalism, the screen is filled with gore.  By the next scene—just like the cartoons of my childhood—the gore is gone, the nibbled limb is back in place.

I knew I was hooked on Family Guy when I started laughing at random places, random times when a line from the show would pop into my head.  I won’t repeat any of them here, because taking a line out of context to demonstrate its guffawability is like trying to explain a dream.  It can’t be done.  It’s almost as hard to explain how a thirteen-year-old boy’s sense of humor gets trapped in a bluestocking’s body.  My own private rebellion?  A reaction formation to too much political correctness?  Who cares!  As Peter Griffin would say, “whaddya lookin at?  It’s a CARTOON!”

A Single’s Guide to Repelling Invading Armies

Being single has its trying times—I won’t deny it.  And sometimes there is simply no upside to having to do it all, all by yourself, all the time.  But you know what?  Over time you do come to know that the unthinkable is thinkable and the undoable is doable.  I have.  Let me tell you about it.

I live in a house that sits at the edge of the woods and on the banks of a stream.  From my window I see deer, turkeys, the occasional great blue heron and the more occasional giant tortoise.  Nature and I coexist companionably.  For the most part.

When I bought my house, I knew I would have to make some adjustments to country living: secure the top of the garbage cans to keep the raccoons out; net the blueberry bushes so the jays don’t eat my crop; keep my dachshund Rudy safe from predatory hawks.

What I did not know is that nature would invade my house, and that I would be on a state of red alert 24/7.  The enemy, the armies of the night, are…mice.  “Get used to it,” my friends say, “you live in the country now.”  “If you won’t get a husband, at least get a cat” my co-workers say, “tabbies will solve your problem, if you don’t mind the bloody bits.”

I first became aware of the rodential invasion when I found Rudy’s kibble neatly deposited on the bottom bookshelf in my study.  Rudy is as bright as wiener dogs come, but he’s not much of a reader.  Then I found another pile of kibble precisely mounded underneath the covers of the guest bed.  Rudy sleeps with me, lucky dog.  But it wasn’t until one evening, as I was finishing up a personal chore in the lav, that I came toe-to-whisker with an enemy soldier on reconnaissance.   The furry morsel of vermin rocketed from one corner of the john to another, jumping over my bare foot and causing me to leap up upon the toilet seat from whence I issued the ages-old battle cry, “EEK!  A MOUSE!”

Since then, I have been at war.  No holiday cease-fires.  No détente.  And most of all: no prisoners.  My aforementioned study is the battleground, complete with a Maginot line of fortifications.   Traps adorn the room’s perimeter, and the faint scent of peanut butter, my ordnance, hangs in the air like cordite after a fire fight.

At night, as I settle in for an evening of sweet dreams, I find it hard to drift off into never-never land until I hear the crisp, authoritative SNAP of a trap sprung.  There’s no better sleep aid, let me tell you, then the satisfying knowledge of a good clean kill.  Of course, I wasn’t always this bloodthirsty, and my first few run-ins with Mickey, Minnie, and the gang were of the more traditionally female variety.

One particular night, quite late, I heard a bang followed by a clatter that grew louder and louder.  I hid under the covers, but the noise kept coming. No knife-wielding intruder, however, invaded the sanctity of my boudoir, so eventually, as I kept listening, I decided that one of those large, scary woodland creatures—a raccoon?  a badger?—had somehow found its way into my house.  At that point, I did what I thought any sane single woman would do…I called 911.

It must have been a slow night, because three patrol cars (I am not kidding) showed up within minutes.  As officers with mega-watt flashlights patrolled the perimeter, several others, guns at the ready, searched the house.  After declaring the all-clear, the officers proceeded to question me—what exactly had I heard? Where did it come from? They concluded that whatever had made the noise—if indeed there had even been a noise—had found its way out the same way it came in.  I was about to agree with them until I looked down and saw, wedged between the heat register and the floor, a mousetrap with a live critter still in its clutches. “Oh, look,” I said.  “We’ll just be on our way now,” the cops replied, leaving me the odious task of figuring out how to put the struggling creature out of its misery.  They had the kindness to withhold their laughter until they were well out of the house. I, on the other hand, retreated to my bedroom, where I cowered till morning.

It was after that that I decided to get serious about ridding my home of these pestilence-bearing furry nuisances.  Here’s how I did it.  Plain, old-fashioned snap traps, baited with peanut butter are by far the most effective, especially when you place them against the wall in out-of-the way places. Under the couch, for example.  Poison is not an option for me because a) I do have a small, omnivorous dog that might stumble upon it and b) my aim is to get rid of the rodents, not torture them with a slow and painful death.  For the same reason I reject glue traps—and you should, too.  Forget about the have-a-heart traps: they accomplish nothing.

When disposing of a trap that has done its job, the simplest method is to throw the whole thing away. This is cost-effective only if you use the really old-fashioned wood-and wire traps.  If, however, you use the plastic traps that resemble a chip clip (not a good substitute, by the way), then pick up the trap with one hand; in the other, have at the ready a paper bag, open.  Turn your head the opposite direction from the bag, drop the carcass in the bag, and without looking, close the bag and throw away. Reset the trap and wash your hands.

Then look in the mirror and give yourself a victory salute, for you, alas, like I, are Supreme Allied Commander and grunt, tactician and technician, undertaker and honor guard in your personal army.

They Were Expendable

As the recession drags on and on, I’ve noticed a disturbing trend about the face of the jobless: singles far outnumber marrieds on the unemployment line.  According to the US Department of Labor’s most recent statistics (http://www.bls.gov/data/), the monthly average unemployment rate for single, never-married women is 11.5 percent.  For married women, the figure is 5.4 percent.  A similar point spread is true for single and married men.

Shocking, isn’t it?

Well, maybe to you, but not to me.  Singles have been the fall guys and gals in times of economic distress for decades—maybe forever.  If the powers-that-layoff must decide between a married woman and a single one?  You’ve seen the stats, so you know who’s most likely to get the boot.  But why is this true?  Are we to suppose that all HR managers are cowards, terrified that the woman with the husband will send her brawny mate to the office so that he may go postal on her behalf?  Or perhaps the boss’s boss—his very own little woman—has given the marching orders: Fire those single temptresses! They’re only at work to bag somebody else’s husband!

I wish that the truth were this lurid, or at least the product of considered thought.  I am convinced that in workplaces experiencing layoffs (I’m thinking specifically about small, non-union organizations) letting single women go first is the default decision.  I know this because I have sat in endless budget-cutting meetings in which “everything is on the table,” “resources must be prioritized,” “profit centers must produce more,” and—my personal favorite—“care must be taken to keep job performance out of the lay-off decision.”  During these meetings hands are wrung, expressions of compassion abound, and generally no decision is taken.  Because, in fact, it has already been determined: get rid of the old maids.  Since the start of the recession, I have watched in sadness as friends and colleagues—all single, all women, all over 50—have gotten pink slips.  Somehow my married friends and colleagues have managed so far to avoid this fate.  I am happy for them but I wonder if they know they are members of a protected class.

The ugly truth is that single women are expendable.  After all, the thinking goes, lacking family responsibilities, singles are carefree.  Without all those bills to pay, it’s a safe bet singles’ve got a tidy stash of cash for a rainy day.  Why, cutting them loose is actually doing them a favor: they can move on with their lives!  I am not making this up.  I have heard it all—and from people who would be astonished and indignant if you called them on their lack of empathy.  It does not ever occur to them that while all of the above may be true, it is nevertheless indisputably true that all singles operate in the world without a safety net.  A scary world when times are tough.

So what’s a wee woman alone in this man’s world to do when she becomes a statistic?  First, she needs to know she’s in great company. Next maybe she needs a stiff drink. And then she’ll do what she’s always done: figure out what’s next by herself.  She’ll be fine.

Why ‘Call Me “Miss”‘?

I’m writing Call Me “Miss”! (CMM) to take on the stereotypes and myths about single-for-life women, or SOLOs (singles over a lifetime only).  I’ll use CMM to define the experience of single women in America and draw of the personal experiences of dozens of them of varied ages, professions and interests.  CMM will examine the preconceived notions of proselytizers of family values, the misplaced pity of married friends and coworkers, and the self-righteous sanctimony of partnered (married or otherwise) gays.  For inspiration, I look to Class, Paul Fussell’s perennially-in-print poisoned-pen valentine to American social mores.  What Class did for out-of-sights and proles, I hope CMM will do for spinsters and old maids.

CMM will examine the touchstones society uses to interpret the life of a SOLO, the archetypal Dizzy Dames, Culture Vultures, Ice Princesses and Swingin’ Singles who populate literature, television, movies and the biases of most marrieds.  CMM will also focus on the real lives of real Solos: the SOLO Sisters (SOLOS), a demographically diverse group of women, will share their experiences and insights throughout the text on topics as diverse as themselves—from good-luck-trying-to-buy-a-car to thank-you-but-I’ll-take-the-table-by-the-window-not-the-kitchen-door to I-get-all-the-hot-sex-I-need-on-Saint-Martin.  And I’ll spill my guts as well. Full disclosure: occasionally I’ll be snarky, and at times, to be completely truthful, I’ll indulge myself in a bracing, gut-busting, soul-satisfying rant.   Readers can just sit back and let it wash over them…waves of feminine pheromones telegraphing the message:  “I’m independent.  I’m well off. I’m not lonely.  I like my life. Deal with it!”

Just as Fussell used Class as his platform to delve into the totems of social status, I’ll use my quirky world view to shed light on the unique accoutrements that SOLOs are believed to possess:  the cloak of invisibility, the calendar of perpetually free time, for example, and share with you the pecking order that couples and partners use to establish the hierarchy of SOLOs:

  • So-Be-Its (Women over 65 who have never married, so-be-its are regarded as honorary wives or widows. Universally addressed by nurses, tellers, and clerks as “Mrs.”, so-be-its long ago gave up correcting the hired help.)
  • So-Lows (Any woman 40-65 who has never married is really at the bottom of the barrel—too young to be considered an elder stateswoman, too old to “have a chance,” the so-low is society’s vessel into which all un-PC prejudices and biases can be dumped without fear of retribution.)
  • So-Disappointings (Any woman under 40 but over 32 who’s yet to wed; there’s still a chance, albeit a remote one, that a so-diss will marry, but her partnered friends and associates are bracing themselves for the worst.)
  • So-Hopefuls (Any woman under 32 who’s yet to marry: young, hip, a so-ho’s got time on her side, so she’s welcomed as an almost-one-of-us by the married and the partnered.  For now.)

CMM will venture into the work place, the market place, vacation destinations, and home.  We’ll do reconnaissance in the most impenetrable suburbs, where real estate signs still proudly advertise, “no singles need apply,” and the denizens would no more have a dinner party or a card game with an “extra woman,” than they would mix up martinis in which guests could actually taste the vermouth.    It is in these venues that the life of a SOLO stands in stark contrast to those that surround her.  You might be surprised—and maybe even a little abashed—to visit these places and see them through SOLO eyes.  You’ll definitely never look at them the same way again!

In the nearly fifty years since Helen Gurly Brown coined her memorable phrase, the sex life of a SOLO has changed—for the better, no question.  But with the good comes the bad and the outrageous, as you’ll read in my reports from the world of post-adolescent dating.  Together we’ll de-brief them.  And believe me, there is nothing that gets a SOLO really fired up as a good de-briefing!

CMM will also review the honor role on contemporary and historical SOLOs of note.  The list—from Elizabeth I to Condoleezza Rice and Janet Neapolitano—is empowering and inspiring. We’ll look for clues to discover whether, like many SOLOs, these women simply forgot to get married in the course of their impressive lives, or if there is some one fundamental element of singlehood that characterizes such women of accomplishment.

Perhaps the darkest topic I’ll take on in CMM is the negative fallout from school shootings, fast-food firefights, and lone-gunman hostage situations. We sit by our TVs or radios, and once again are forced to listen to a “grief counselor” sagely opine that “he was a loner” or “he kept to himself” or “he like to read instead of play with the other kids” as the explanation for criminal, for insane, for deadly behaviors.  We take cold comfort in the fact that the perp is inevitably a he and not a she. Indeed, the loner-as-crazed-killer paradigm has so infiltrated popular culture that all singles—crazed or otherwise—can’t help but wonder if it’s true.  Or if that Uzi under the bed really is there just for protection.  Of the many stereotypes applied to singles, this is the most vicious and insidious.  We’ll take apart and lay it to rest.

I  am eager to begin this journey.  I hope you’ll come alone.  I mean “along.”


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