Erin Ruffin’s Weblog

Explanation of Benefits
I have never understood this document.  It comes to me through the mail in a very official-looking envelope.  The return address is my health insurance provider and it shows up after I’ve had a doctor’s appointment.  A million things run through my mind like: maybe they’re writing to say I have a fatal illness.  Or maybe they’re writing an “Oops!  We accidentally covered too much of the bill at your last doctor’s appointment.  Please remit payment for $598,340 at your earliest convenience.”   This document scares me to death because written across it every-which-way are massive dollar amounts.  Some are in parentheses, which might mean it’s a negative amount or it could mean the company is just having a little inside joke with me.  Some dollar amounts are in bold, some are underlined, and some are italicized.  My eyes dart back and forth across the pages and sweat forms on my brow.  I need to sit down.  I can’t pay this amount of money.  What are they trying to do to me?

Then I see it.  I see the disclosure.  “This is not a bill.”

THEN WHAT IS IT?  Is it just a little notice of bragging rights?  “Look how much we did for you?  Look at how much of your over-priced standard physical exam we covered for you!”  Thanks, Mr. Health Insurance.  Thanks for weakening my heart and expanding my ulcer and causing me to get on the phone with my doctor to set up another appointment to get these symptoms you just worsened checked out.  I appreciate all of your hard work.

Whatever you do – don’t take zinc supplements.

I thought since I don’t eat an overly red-meaty diet (it’s true despite what you may have read in my blog) that maybe I could use a little extra zinc. You know? Boost my immune system a little? Decrease my risk of getting malaria? Increase my white blood cells? Sounds pretty good to me.

So I popped a zinc supplement and 20 minutes later I almost passed out. I got nauseous, shaky and started having hot flashes. I thought I was on the verge of becoming the world’s first person to OD on zinc supplements. The worst part of it was that I was on the V-train headed to work and I so desperately don’t want to die on the V-train. So by my fingernails, I clung onto my precious life.

At work I Googled “death by zinc” and look what I found:
“One case report cited severe nausea and vomiting within 30 minutes after the person ingested zinc supplements.”

AND I found out that the average, somewhat healthy person doesn’t need to take zinc supplements. So I decided I’d stick to a multi-vitamin, only I’m going to be safe and buy the ones for women over the age of 75. I figure I can’t go wrong there.

Apparently the tenderloins in New York City are reserved for Manhattanites. I looked in all of my supermarkets in Astoria/Long Island City for tenderloins and I came up empty-handed. I did find plenty of curry mixes, kebab meat, and tzatziki but no tenderloins. I was starting to get really nervous.

A couple of weeks ago I declared I was going to practice cooking meat because I don’t really cook and when I do I almost never venture into waters deeper than vegetables, chicken or fish. I’m embarrassed to say it because I come from a family of amazing cooks but I just never got on the boat. The other thing that works against me when it comes to meat cooking are my gag reflexes. They come full force when I peel that white butcher paper off of any kind of slimy raw meat. I mean were we honestly meant to be eating this?

To hold myself accountable to my meat cooking declaration, I invited some friends to a dinner party and ignorantly (I mean that VERY literally) declared that I would be cooking Beef Tenderloins with Blue Cheese Stuffing. At the time, I really didn’t know what a tenderloin was, and after hunting all over Queens and not finding one, I thought maybe tenderloins just weren’t in season.

Wrong.

On the day of the dinner party, I was so nervous I left work early to go meat shopping. I figured if anyone was eating tenderloins it would have to be those Manhattanites and sure enough I found some at Whole Foods on 14th Street. Phew. I picked up the other ingredients and pranced up to the checkout line SO very proud of my cute Whole Foods basket of groceries (which included tenderloins) on my arm.

So I’m standing in the mile-long checkout line, hands full with meat cooking supplies, blackberry buzzing and ringing like crazy in my bag, and what do I see in the line next to me? As if my nerves weren’t already twisty enough. It was a kid, maybe 16 years old, with two white rats crawling around his neck and across his shoulders. Their disgusting ropey, mangy tails were sticking out of the kid’s long greasy hair. I felt faint. I thought someone had increased the wattage in the Whole Foods lighting because suddenly everything seemed glaring white. I tried to play a game with myself to avoid freaking the freak out, so I acted like I was on that show where you’re subject to gross and scary things and you have to keep your heart rate down? It didn’t work. There was a kid with two rats crawling all over him. In Whole Foods. I mean I’m in the Barney’s of supermarkets and I have to put up with this? I have tenderloins in my basket for goodness’ sake and I’m standing next to a kid with a live rat scarf on.

Finally it was my turn and I walked up to Register #19 where Kamerah was waiting to check me out. I was pale (even more than normal) and I just stood in front of her holding my basket with glazed-over eyes.
“Ma’am could you put the basket up here where I can reach your groceries?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Here I’ll unload them for you. It’s just…I’m really distracted. I mean there’s a kid in the store RIGHT NOW that has two white rats crawling around on him.”
“THERE’S WHAT? RATS? WHERE? WHERE? IS HE CLOSE TA US?”
“Yeah, he was standing right next to me! I’m so freaked out.”
“OH MA GAWD. WHERE IS HE? I don’ know what I’m going ta do if he comes ta muh line. I couldn’t even check him out. I’d just scream an’ scream an’ don’t make me pull mah gat.”

Gat? I had to google it, too. It’s a “gangster’s pistol.”

As if buying my first tenderloin wasn’t traumatizing enough.

Thank you, Astoria/Long Island City for your sweet, Mom and Pop supermarkets that don’t have kids with live rat accessories, gats, or tenderloins.

*Note: Unless I have really polite, non-confrontational friends, my tenderloins were apparently a success. The one low point was when blood leaked out on the counter from the paper the meat was in and I cried a little as I wiped it up.

My friend Caroline and I were on the subway last weekend when she noticed the sole of my right Converse flopping around. As if my janky Converse was the oddest thing on the train to point out. I mean the woman across the way from us had lipstick plastered from mid-chin to the bottom of her nose while she sang Sweet Jane by Lou Reed. Caroline did her head tilt with sympathy eyes, “Erin, you need new shoes,” like she was genuinely disappointed with me.
That’s when it hit me like a ton of bricks.
“You know what I think? I spend so much money and energy on the perfect outfit but I neglect the shoe part. I rarely update my shoe collection. Caroline! I bet I’ve ruined so many outfits because of my half-hearted shoe choices. I mean what’s a $300 pair of jeans if the sole of my converse is flopping around?”
The subway car started spinning around me, my heart was racing and the crazy woman moved on from singing “Sweet Jane” to “Walk on the Wild Side.” I was near panic.
“I bet people notice, Caroline. I bet they think, “great clothes, lose the shoes.” Oh I’ve ruined so many outfits. I know it. I’m thinking of specifics right now.”
“Erin, I do the same thing. Look at these shoes. I wear them all the time and they’re NOT cool. Oh this is bad. I bet it’s enough to lose friends. Erin, I bet we’ve lost friends over this.”