Monthly Archives: January 2009

Insurance, My House is Worth Tons

I get my new home insurance policy and it seems high.

On one of the few transverseable Newburyport winter wonderland days, I wander into my insurance company, introduce myself to the new young lady in charge of insuring my stuff, and declare that the new premium seems “high.”

I also tell her that I haven’t read through the darn thing, I have no idea what’s in it, but promise that indeed I will peruse the document in question.

Also, somehow the subject of “Minnesota” (see previous post) comes up, and a declaration is made that my new young lady insurance person would never think of leaving good old New England. I, of course, think that this is downright dandy, and feel that we have a bond (a good thing to feel that you have with your new insurance lady, which, of course may or may not be true).

A few days later I actually do read the document in question. I find out, that it appears among other things that I am insured for a golf cart that I don’t own, and a boat, that I don’t own either. The insurance company also seems to think that the price of my house has actually gone up. Were that that would be actually true, in these lousy and scary financial times.

So I chat with my new insurance lady and explain that I don’t want to be insured for a golf cart or a boat that I don’t own. I’m told that this is standard policy, but I zone out during the explanation of why this is “standard” stuff.

I’m sitting there wondering, because I haven’t perused the document in question that carefully, what else might I be paying to be insured for. A flock of sheep? An island in the Bahamas? The possibilities are endless.

Also, I’m so used to getting statements from my medical insurance telling me all the things that I’m not insured for, that I’m just not used to being insured for a golf cart that I’m never planning to use, much less never planning to buy.

After the explanation, that I’ve paid absolutely no attention to, because I’ve been wondering what else I could be insured for, I also inform my new insurance lady, that in these times when houses, on a whole, are worth less than they were, let’s say a year ago (woe is me), that there is no way I’m paying what the insurance company thinks my house might be worth.

Silence, the insurance company might not agree.

So, instead of saying something tactful like, “I’m sure you can convince them to come to another conclusion,” I say the sort of thing that makes people wish they worked somewhere else. The sort of thing that instead of putting a smile on a person’s face, they grip their desk when they see you or hear the sound of your voice, and say to their family when they get home, “You would not believe the day that I’ve had!”

Maybe it was reading about being insured for the golf cart thing, but I slipped and pulled what my son would call a “New Yawker.” Lots of explanations on my part, but no excuse.

Newburyport Perpetual Winter

I’m still here you know.

I meet someone in the grocery store. Their face lights up with relief, huge hug, “You haven’t left,” they say. “You didn’t go to Minnesota.”

It’s nice to see their face light up.

Endomorphins from huge hugs are always appreciated.

But the “Minnesota” thing has me stumped. Maybe in the midst of yet another New England winter from hell, I might, might consider, possibly a stint in much warmer place like North Carolina, for instance. But Minnesota? As I recall from my vast readings of Laura Ingalls Wilder, winters in Minnesota are far worse than in Newburyport, Massachusetts.

I meet someone in CVS shortly after my very nice encounter in the grocery store. “You’re still here? We thought you’d left.” No, “How nice to see you.” Certainly no lighting up of any face. No, just a good old “Newburyport Yankee,” “You’re still here?”

Ah, what a relief. The “dichotomy” that is Newburyport appears to be very much around. The “dichotomy” that I’ve written about on the Newburyport Blog for now 3 years (good grief), poked at, mused over, tried to explain, is still very much part of the community in which I live. I find myself oddly relieved by this.

I like these “tough old birds.”

“Tough old bird,” was a “saying” that my Mother used to use. This was way before feminism was even quaintly fashionable. No one in their right mind would refer to any female these days as a “tough old bird.”

Where have I been? Obsessing over the sucky, let’s face it, yes, it’s beyond sucky, economy. Wondering (vast understatement) if anyone in their right mind would buy gorgeous paintings (I’m an artist), when even the very rich are losing their houses (or at least some of their houses).

So I’ve been designing “web stuff.” (Hopefully more on this later.) Thinking that it could be a good idea to expand “Mary Baker Art” to “web stuff.” I’ve been contemplating that websites could be works of art, launched into the universe by the World Wide Web, aka the Internet.

Yes, and what better project, I say to myself, than to design websites, during a sucky New England winter, that feels like something out of Narnia when that witch was in charge. It feels sometimes, like a frozen, perpetual “Ground Hog Day.”

One of my neighbors looks at me quizzically as I brush my front steps of snow (lots of snow) with a dainty, somewhat beat-up, broom. I tell them that it gives me hope that in the not too distant future, I will be complaining about wretchedly long hot summers (this is actually true).

They shrug (it’s a good thing that I’m an artist, I can pretty much get away with this kind of nonsense) and look at me as if I’m nuts.