What, me, Paranoid?

NUMBER A) I'm trying to refinance my house, and use some of the equity to complete much needed repairs and upgrades. With a credit score most people dream of (and which I was able to maintain last year, thanks to Bro #2) and the fact that I'm refinancing with my current mortgage holder, it should be a walk in the park. But there have been several hiccups and screw-ups, and I've had to do all the legwork to set things straight.

The latest is that the new title company claims my deed lists an incorrect lot number. Really? It's the same lot number that was used when my original mortgage was sold three times, and it's the same lot number that was used when I refinanced in '93, but suddenly it's not good enough. Well, this time I called my contact at the mortgage company, Princess Commission, and told her to figure it out. She was taken aback: "You want me to... do something?" Yes, Princess, you have all the same paperwork as I do: hoist up thine caboose, pretend thou art grateful to be employed, and do your freakin' job.

NUMBER B) I am once again trying to slay the dragon. The DieSuckah Health Insurance Company is refusing to cover a drug that is supposed to help with chemo-brain. I'm on the second level of appeal: a written letter detailing my position. I sent it to the address they told me to use in their original refusal... and two weeks later, the post office has returned it as "undeliverable."

With apologies to John and postal workers everywhere who actually perform the job for which they were hired... that is often not the case here in this large urban metropolis. Starting in the mid-80s, many mid- and low-skill level State and Federal jobs were filled with people booted off the welfare rolls. People who aren't particularly motivated, or grateful to be employed, or in possession of even a minimal skill set. It has become clear that literacy is optional, and perhaps so is a pulse. So I'm very ready to believe some moe-ron at the P.O. put this sticker on my envelope and returned it to me by mistake.

Just to make sure, I call DieSuckah, and they confirm that I sent the letter to the correct address. I hopped in Hondo Banal, loaded for bear, and went to the Post Office. One hundred and thirty-seven years later, I am told that the Post Office was correct, that DieSuckah closed that post office box and did not think to forward the mail to the new address. Post Office! DieSuckah! Post Office! DieSuckah! My moral outrage has whiplash.I'm sure it's just my warped perspective, but I feel as though every letter I open, every phone call I answer, is going to be one more screw-up, problem, mistake, ordeal, something that will vex me, and require time, energy and effort that I just don't have to spare. Am I being paranoid? Or just plain old anoid? I can't tell -- but just in case there is any balance at all in the universe, I think it's time to spring for a lottery ticket.