It all began with that cursed fortune cookie.
Swollen with greasy sesame chicken -- Southeast Missouri style -- I cracked the cookie open and pulled out that fateful slip of paper.
"Everything will come your way."
Now THAT'S a fortune, I thought. Riches, success, Russell Crowe wearing his "Gladiator" costume ...
In the little system of superstitions and fantasies I've created to make my life seem interesting, I have to eat the cookie for the fortune to come true. I'm not sure if this has any basis in Chinese tradition.
(My grandmother once ate her fortune. My family was going around the table reading them, and when we got to her, she didn't have one. "There was paper in that cookie?" she asked. I'm not sure what that means under my superstition.)
I should have considered all the implications of "everything" coming my way before I ate that damn cookie. I was too busy having my Heidi-as-a-Roman-empress-meets-Russell-Crowe-as-a-gladiator fantasy to consider that "everything" could mean meteors, locusts and pestilence.
And then, a few days later, I got the letter from the Internal Revenue Service.
I already knew I was in trouble over last year's taxes, having actually made it out of the lowest tax bracket for the first time in my life. That seldom happens to journalists, so we're totally unprepared.
The Other Half and I didn't have enough taxes withheld. My trusty tax preparer, whom I discovered through a discount coupon offer, explained it this way: "You make it, and Uncle Sam is gonna take it."
We sent $300 in "good faith" money. The IRS sent us a letter informing us that wasn't enough to settle our tax bill of a few thousand dollars.
I sought out the assistance of our local IRS officials, who helpfully informed me that the best thing to do was pay the tax bill. Really. Right now.
Oh, and by the way, that $300 we sent? Totally eaten up by the interest.
I paid the tax bill and then went directly to the grocery store to buy enough cat food to feed The Other Half and me for the next year.
My appointment with an ear-nose-throat specialist was a few days later. My crescendo snoring was not only waking my husband, but being picked up on the Center for Earthquake Studies' seismograph.
The doctor whirled into the examining room, picked up an odd metal device and used it to pry my nostrils open wider. This is a very booger-intensive job. I was mortified.
"Uh huh," he said. "Deviated septum. The inside of your nose looks very much like this."
He motioned to a photograph of what appeared to be liverwurst.
Not wanting the inside of my nose to look like that, I scheduled my surgery. The doctor's office sent a list of what I needed to have done and the cost estimates.
It made my IRS tab look like chump change.
I called my mega-corporation insurance company Tuesday to see if all of it was covered. The following conversation with a Soulless Insurance Devil ensued:
SID: What are the surgeries you will be having?
Heidi: Septoplasty, tonsillectomy and something they've abbreviated on here. It's written "bil. turb. reduction."
SID: You mean a blah blah blah?
Heidi: I guess so.
SID: Well, the tonsillectomy and the blah blah blah is covered, but your doctor may have to write a letter about the septoplasty.
Heidi: Why?
SID: It's considered cosmetic in some cases.
Heidi: It isn't for me. I happen to like my nose. It's the only feature about me I like.
SID: I understand that, but we need the letter.
Heidi: Now you look here! If I were going to have cosmetic surgery, it would be a boob job and liposuction! MY NOSE IS JUST FINE!!!
SID: Calm down, ma'am.
Of course, they're generously allowing me to pay $500 plus 20 percent of the costs of whatever they cover.
And after the tonsillectomy, no hard foods for several days. Certainly not fortune cookies.
It's for the best.
Heidi Hall is managing editor of the Southeast Missourian.
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