//

Waffle Iron Day, celebrated on the 13th of March, held special significance for Caleb, 42, if not also for his wife Calin, 39.  It was on that national holiday when the Merced couple decided to “really do up breakfast” as Caleb put it. The original menu that morning was deceptively simple.  “Let’s just have bacon, eggs and whole wheat toast,” Calin suggested.

Unfortunately, Caleb wasn’t satisfied. He wanted waffles. “Today is Waffle Iron Day.” Caleb said, beginning to whine, “Did you know that National Waffle Iron Day has been a tradition in my family for more than a century?”

“I doubt it,” replied Calin, who was always willing to speak or even shout her mind, “It hasn’t been a holiday that long.”

“It has too,” Caleb shrieked, and he was close to tears, “My grandfather told us the whole story about how it came to be a national holiday on March 13th.” 

“Whatever,” Calin said, already disgusted.

Caleb removed the waffle iron from the convenient cabinet where it’d been stored, and put it within Calin’s easy reach.   

“I want strawberries and blueberries and yams in my waffles,” Caleb said in a certifiably annoying tone.

“You want yams?” Calin screamed, “I’m allergic to yams! You knew that, too!”

Their argument escalated enough so that what happened next was predictable. Calin picked up the waffle iron, and conked her husband right on the noggin, knocking him cold.

She picked up the phone and called their California Health Insurance agent, who was also the tempestuous couple’s friend.  “Caleb’s out cold this time,” Calin cried, “I hit him with a waffle iron.”

“Oh that’s right, today’s National Waffle Iron Day again, isn’t it?” the agent asked. “Don’t worry, you’re covered. But better call an ambulance.”

Calin did just that, and a few minutes later, all the neighbors heard the siren. Caleb was still unconscious when he was carried into the ambulance.

“She really must have conked him good,” remarked Mrs. Kravitz, a nosy neighbor.

“What do you expect?” said Mr. Kravitz, “Some people can’t be trusted with a waffle iron.”

———————

//

On Saturday, October 2nd Alvin Andante took his teenage daughter Amy to a festival for Goths not far from her high school campus in Oxnard. A relevant flyer had touted the event as a “creepy day of fun that even Poe’s immortal raven would have loved” and stated, ominously as it turned out, that “anyone less than 18 would have to be accompanied by a parent or guardian.” This combination of wording should have given Alvin pause. In fact, just a few weeks prior, he’d been buying a new family policy at the office of Jim, Alvin’s friendly yet savvy California Health Insurance agent, and Jim had warned Alvin that fourteen-year-old Amy was “a rather impulsive teenager” and as a parent of three boys, three girls, and numerous pets, he should know. Amy just looked at her Dad and this man who sold health insurance and laughed her famous wicked laugh. But that was weeks ago.

“Please Daddy Waddy,” she had pleaded that morning. With her blonde hair dyed an inky black and a  macabre piercing protruding from her lower lip that made her Daddy wince just to think about, how could he refuse?

At the booth where they sold finger foods, Alvin bought a breaded concoction which looked tasty.  When he bit down on something crunchy that snapped and cracked between his teeth, and almost immediately heard his daughter scream, followed by her famous wicked laugh, as she held up her bloody hand with what appeared to be a broken finger …

Was that terror he saw in his daughter’s peculiar eyes? Why was she laughing if he’d just broken her finger? Within minutes, her entire hand began to swell, and one of his questions got neatly answered – even if the jagged bone fragment spelled ‘mayhem’ with a lowercase M.

“We’re going to Urgent Care little girl,” he yelled above the din in his paternal mind. He also told Amy to stop that idiotic laughter as it was confusing him. Father and daughter took off toward their Lexus just as something avian and hideous, was that a raven?—swooped down from a Gothic sky.

———————

//

Who would have thunk it? Byron Doomedee had been trained since the age of six as a croc hunter. Coming to America from his native Brisbane, he’d been hoping to get in the movies like other croc-hunting Aussies, but it never happened. In fact, Byron’s last real job — raking elephant dung at a small New Jersey zoo, had ended nearly a year ago. The elephant in question, a large African bull, had unfortunately developed constipation. Byron had moved on to Hollywood, briefly finding temp work at a traveling circus in Beverly Hills, wrestling alligators on Tuesdays. When the circus inevitably left town, Byron was bereft once again.  This meant pounding the pavement an awful lot. In August he’d paid an office call to a California Health Insurance agent, and after buying a policy there, an act which seemed at the time as aimless as being unemployed, he kept pounding the city’s sidewalks looking for a real job – hopefully something that didn’t involve a rake. One crisp autumn day, he learned from his entertainment agent that a television audition was in the works, and became so excited that he tripped on a crack that appeared in his mind’s eye like a crocodile’s jaws – and so fell and broke his tailbone in two places.

When Byron called his California Health Insurance agent for advice while lying flat on his back in terrible pain, his agent recommended that he hail a cab to the hospital if he could still hop, telling him to scream for a street side stretcher if not.  It turned out Byron was rescued by a rickshaw in the vicinity, one being towed by a marginally employed bull elephant that somehow looked familiar. Sitting atop the elephant, Byron nearly felt exhilarated again, almost as if he was back in New Jersey and gainfully employed. He was quite cushioned too, which lessened the pain in his twice-fractured tailbone. Dismounting at the nearest hospital proved to be a definite ordeal, but once there he was welcomed heartily. One of the doctors had a crocodile for him to see and knew by heart most of the movies he’d never been in.

———————

//

Aaron, a lanky 12-year-old about to begin 7th grade, was in the middle of his pubertal growth spurt. His wrists and ankles seemed barely attached by their tendons and sinews to his arms and legs, and like a lot of boys his age – he was at that klutzy stage.  “Aaron, pick up your feet!” his loud-voiced mom would scream seeing her son stumble off, embarrassing him in front of his friend, he only had one, another young klutz named Ralph, but Aaron’s mom didn’t extend her nagging ear-piercing soprano to her neighbor’s kid. Miraculously, Aaron, who might have felt safer trapped during puberty in a Mason jar, didn’t get seriously injured during that summer before entering 7th grade with the rest of his tweener peers. Other than a few cuts and bruises experienced as consequences received from clumsily falling over steps and tripping over obstacles of sundry description, Aaron managed to escape that summer unscathed.

But the first day of school was another story. During first period, right after homeroom, Aaron was already late as it had been gym, he started running to his algebra class in the hall, and by the time his gym teacher could finish yelling, “Hey Mason! Pick up your feet!” Aaron had become tangled up in his own legs and tripped, falling flat on his chin and smacking his jaw against the middle school’s hardwood floor, just polished by the school janitor minutes before and very treacherous. Aaron was knocked cold and carried out of his school into a waiting ambulance on a stretcher.

Ralph went to see Aaron in the hospital, and was there when his friend woke up in his hospital bed. So was a California Health Insurance agent who happened to be courteously checking in on the Mason kid, a tall man with glasses whom neither Ralph nor Aaron immediately recognized. “Who is he?” Aaron whispered through clenched teeth to his friend, his jaw shot full of painkillers.    

“I’m Clark Kent, a California Health Insurance agent,” the strange man replied. Oddly, he also spoke through clenched teeth – but in his case it was merely an idiosyncrasy.

———————

//

It had seemed like a lark. The four dorm buddies had just learned on the Internet that TODAY, August 7th – was National Sea Serpent Day. “That’s crazy,” said Jim Brewer, an astute but fun-loving 22-year-old, “Who ever heard of a sea serpent in southern California waters?” Sitting with Jim in his room were Mike, Dave, and Bill, surnamed Smith, Doe, and Jones respectively, all majors in marine sciences, and all had a good laugh. Something else they all had in common were health insurance policies provided by a California Health Insurance agent – which was to prove fortuitous.

One of the college students decided on an excursion as a way to celebrate the peculiar holiday – intended partly in jest but also because going out in Jim’s Aquasport was fun. A few hours later, Jim Brewer and his buddies were placidly perched in the 20-foot Aquasport when something, a sleek & sinuous serpentine shape, suddenly loomed over their boat in the fog, rising from the depths, and swiftly rammed them before any of them could blink.

“What the heck was that?” Dave Doe managed to say while bobbing in the ocean a mile off Catalina Island, as the Aquasport was capsized. Jim replied in emergency mode, “Everybody is okay, except for Mike, he’s swallowed a lot of water.”

Luckily Dave and Bill managed to right the boat, and they all headed back toward the city. Enroute, Jim put in a call via cell (amazingly it still functioned) to Mr. Tim Neptune, the kindly California Health Insurance agent who knew all their parents, and regarded these young men too as his clients.

“What can I do for you?”

“Our boat got swamped,” Jim blurted.

“What capsized you?”

“We don’t know. We think it was a sea serpent. But Mike Smith swallowed a lot of water and he’s barely conscious. What should we do?”

“Take him to the nearest ER,” advised Neptune, sounding like a sea god at that moment, “Don’t worry. You all have coverage and it’s current.”

Once their buddy Mike was taken in, he required hospitalization and an overnight stay. When he woke up in his hospital bed, Mike’s first words were peculiar. “It was a sea serpent,” he said, “I saw it.”

———————

//

Richie Montrose was an all American boy. The previous summer he’d been 12 and broken his foot while skateboarding down a steep hill. Mending the hairline fracture had been out of pocket, no insurance. This summer, his parents were better prepared, and went to see a California Health Insurance agent with Richie in tow.

“We’re covered,” his dad triumphantly said afterwards, “What would you like to do this summer?”

To Richie, that was a no brainer. “August 16 is National Roller Coaster Day,” the boy said, a bit wistfully, “Why don’t we all go to Six Flags Magic Mountain?”

His Dad considered it, his mom was right there, and it was the family’s vacation week. The theme park was nearby in Valencia, only about twenty miles north of West Hollywood where the family lived. “There are neat roller coasters at Magic Mountain,” his mom offered, “and we can go there, on one condition: All three of us have to go on whatever ride you choose.”

Richie considered the embarrassment factor, he was actually a teenager, and whirred through his mind’s eye the park’s 100+ thrilling rides, including roller coasters like Tatsu, Goliath, the Riddler’s Revenge, and  his all-time favorite, the revamped X2. Somehow he had to convince both of his parents to ride that. But he would do it. “It’s a deal,” Richie agreed.

That family fun day began within minutes of the park’s opening. By late afternoon, they’d ridden as a family five of Magic Mountain’s six looping coasters – but not the X2. Worse, with dusk approaching, both parents were balking. “Pretty please …” the boy finally said, with strategic tears starting in both eyes. His parents weren’t dummies when it came to coasters. They knew about the X2’s raven turns, its terrifying flips, how the individual coasters spin independently 360 degrees forwards and backwards on a separate axis. “No way,” Richie’s dad drew the line, or thought he did.

But a few moments later they were all strapped in and set for an unrelenting thrill, and after the ride, when Richie’s dad felt pain in his ribs, lots of it, Richie was philosophical on their way to the ER. “At least we’re covered dad,” he said, and his mom laughed, while his dad only tried to.

———————

//

The Donegans, Bob, Mitzy, and their kids, Joey, Johnny, and Jimmy loved to light fireworks on their land near Eureka. They’d get it from Tijuana, and drive up past San Francisco with enough firepower every 4th of July to start their own preemptive war. Their family health insurance plan typically served for mundane family catastrophes that might occur at other times of the year. Except for this single idiosyncrasy, a well-intentioned rite for celebrating our nation’s birthday, the Donegans were pretty ordinary. Bob was a self-employed entrepreneur with a computer repair business. Mitzy did the company’s books, and the kids, already quite computer literate, did the troubleshooting if the trouble wasn’t too complicated.

Around June 29th the family drove off merrily humming. Their black hummer headed south for the border towards Tijuana’s fireworks stands, some with supermarket-like inventories,  to stock up on Roman candles and bottle rockets, salutes and M-80s, blockbusters and cherry bombs, even sparklers and snakes for little Jimmy, who was only twelve and a bit more timid than his brothers and parents.

Once back home, preparation for festive explosions and “the lighting” always was a big production. Neighbors came from miles around. Bob and Mitzy were relatively safety-conscious, but their boys could be downright careless – especially Johnny, a sullen 14-year-old who loved to see just about anything “blow up.” He was about to stuff a live M-80 into the unsuspecting maw of Spritzy, the family’s beloved Dalmatian, when the explosive power of that quarter-stick of dynamite exploded prematurely and blew up near a horrified Jimmy, trying to save the dog.  Mitzy dialed her family’s California Health Insurance agent in the nick of time. “Dial 911 – Stat!” he screamed over the phone. She did, and Jimmy was rushed to the nearest regional medical center via ambulance.

They all went to visit Jimmy after the surgery. He was bandaged up. “You look just like The Mummy from that movie,” remarked Johnny, displaying his usual contemptuous flair for the insensitive.   

“How’s Spritzy?” Jimmy managed to ask, barely audible through his wrappings.

———————

//

Bastille Day falls on July 14th every year. Lately, septuagenarian Pritella Pratt felt like storming a few Bastilles herself, and she wasn’t even French. She did enjoy French salad dressing on her Romaine lettuce, and had eaten French fries, but that doesn’t count. But on Bastille Day, 2010, the French Independence Day, Pritella was in a hurry and tripped coming down some cement steps. She kept her balance, but it was Pritella’s pratfall nonetheless, as by evening of that day, several hours later, she felt a sharp nagging ache in her lower back. What was Pritella to do? She called Mabel, her beloved California Health Insurance agent (Mabel had also been her pinochle partner when her husband had been alive), to learn if her Medigap supplemental coverage was still in effect. “Yes indeedy,” Mabel said in her strange Irish brogue, “it is.” Medicare was great, but after Plan D of the Bush years, she didn’t know what to expect. She rushed out of her house, headed for her car, a Studebaker, and tripped, more seriously this time, a second pratfall. “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” she whispered as loudly as she could. Several more such vocalizations left Pritella feeling very old indeedy, and now her back was much worse. It was still Bastille Day, but almost dusk. A crow was cawing. Finally a good Samaritan named Sam came by, and helped Pritella to her Studebaker. Deep down the seventy-six-year-old felt a sprig of hope, like a probing tendril, because of Mabel’s affirmative words “Yes indeedy.” Those precious words were all that mattered now. Three blocks later, the urgent care center came into view. She could have walked there if it weren’t for her pratfalls. It was now dusk and a second crow cawed. Her back was killing her, perhaps literally as she didn’t know what was wrong.  Feeling a surge of “old lady” adrenalin, she managed to open the glass doors, and walked into the health care facility. “I’ve got Medicare, and Medigap supplemental,” she proudly said when asked by the receptionist, and promptly fainted.

It turned out that she’d “ruptured something,” and she needed to go the hospital for observation. Waking up in her hospital bed, her first thoughts were of Mabel – and not the bill.

———————

//

John

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Article Content:
Daemon had been lost to the Smith family for more than a decade. But when John Smith’s mauling by the rarely seen wolverine had made the TV news, partly because of a California Health Insurance agent’s more than due diligence, Father’s Day 2010 became extra special.

//

John Smith and his wife Becca were preparing for their annual Father’s Day “cookout and fleshly barbeque” when the unthinkable happened. Usually the event drew the Smith’s three remaining children – Michael (named after the archangel), Mary (named after the mother of Jesus), and John Jr. (named after his Dad), ages 27, 29, and 31 respectively. Another Smith spawn was seldom spoken of. He’d left home at 18 for parts unknown, although rumors had surfaced that he’d become a Major League Baseball superstar for the Dodgers. Since the Smiths all hated baseball and none of them owned a television or radio, even if Daemon was playing shortstop with the Dodgers, his family wouldn’t have known. In fact, the family’s “black sheep” had become almost as famous as Manny Ramirez. Daemon was 32 now, and in fourteen years, there hadn’t been a single letter from the prodigal Smith son to any of his family members. Perhaps strangely, Daemon had become estranged.  

The accident involved the elder Smith. He was on the far side of Beverly Hills, his musket in hand, searching for a main course for the family’s upcoming “cookout and fleshly barbeque.”  If he’d been watching TV, he’d have known to avoid the far side of Beverly Hills. This nefarious region had become the lair of the infamous “Beverly Hills Wolverine.” It was on the news almost non-stop that day. The far side of Beverly Hills was like a ghost town.  “It’s awful quiet in these parts. Just me and my blunderbuss,” John Smith managed to say aloud, before the wolverine pounced. Wolverines are quite vicious. Just ask anyone from Michigan.

A California Health Insurance agent living in the neighborhood discovered Mr. Smith, who had purchased a policy on a prudent whim a few months back. The agent called ‘911.’ His second call was to the TV news stations.

On Father’s Day, the Smiths settled for turkey as their main course. Becca, Michael, Mary, and John Jr. were sitting down at the family picnic table with the bandaged John Sr., everyone in a melancholy mood when guess who showed up, bringing half the Dodgers?

———————

//

Everyone has a mother – even in California. A mother is often the first memory we have, and in most cases, except where the mother

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Article Content:
A California health insurance agent had to be summoned to Sacramento when budget cuts threatened to put the kibosh on Mother’s Day. 

//

Health Insurance

Everyone has a mother – even in California. A mother is often the first memory we have, and in most cases, except where the mother happens to be a “bad Mommy,” and often not even then, we tend to cherish our mothers and want to celebrate them on that Sunday in May set aside. Andrew S. Samaritan, a California Health Insurance agent based in Fresno, kept getting calls from his clients.

“Did you hear what they’re doing? I read it in the paper,” an elderly woman screamed, one who had a policy in good standing, “Andrew, are you listening to me?”

Andrew tried at first to accept the loss of Mother’s Day with quiet resignation. His mother and he had never gotten along. He began quietly humming. “Andrew!” the woman screamed again, “Mother’s Day is my day. It’s the only day that my son Mordred realizes I’m alive!”

Andrew knew Mordred, and didn’t particularly like him either, although he also purchased a policy and it was a family plan in good standing.  “I’ll see what I can do,” Andrew said, determined to do nothing, and hoping it would all blow over. It didn’t.

Mordred called next. “I can’t stand it!” he screamed, “My mother is going crazy over this thing about Mother’s Day being cancelled. You know the governor’s influential aide. Will you drive up to Sacramento and help?”

“It’s only cancelled for this year,” Andrew said, “until they get money back in the till.” He said this in the tone not fitting for an empathetic California Health Insurance agent, as if the crisis was no big deal.

“It IS a big deal!” screamed Mordred, as if HE were able to read Andrew’s mind, and hung up.

Seventy-eight calls from clients later, Andrew Samaritan decided to become a Good Samaritan. He got in his Honda Accord and headed up to the State Capitol.

The task at hand was speaking to the influential aide that he knew. The aide was actually Andrew’s sixth cousin, twice removed, once forcibly, in many ways a bad Samaritan.

But this story has a happy ending, and Mother’s Day was restored. Things would be fine for awhile, until everybody discovered that they’d cancelled Christmas.

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