We closed on our condo in January, after a months-long battle with what remained of a murdered man’s development company, a five-week bout of unemployment, a new job for me, a whole new career for the boyfriend … along with the billions of other things people have to think about when they’re buying new property and moving into it. Together. For the first time. With no turning back. Even if one of us gets up to pee an awful lot every night.
And I thought we’d done a good job updating addresses, opening a joint checking account, transferring the utilities to our names, supervising contractors, scheduling movers, stocking the refrigerator, buying cute new shoes to celebrate moving in together and everything else on our epic to-get-done list.
But the title company never asked us for proof of insurance at our closing. And the condo board never asked us for proof of insurance when we moved in. And without those built-in reminders, the whole insurance thing never really crossed our minds. Which means we’ve been cooking meth and incinerating hookers and welding Ferris wheels in our condo for three whole months with no insurance whatsoever. None!
We didn’t realize any of this, though, until Coppy McGoatfucker confiscated my driver's license a month ago in a little fundraising sting where I discovered that in all the excitement of moving I’d also forgotten to put my proof of car insurance (and my car was fully insured, for the record) actually in my car.
But that all changed about 20 minutes ago when—after a combined 10 hours on the Internet and phone getting quotes and researching company reliability (conclusion: every insurance agency in the world has disgruntled former customers who are not afraid to post their stories on the Internet)—we are now officially insured. One condo and two cars. All in one handy bill. Which means we can ramp up the meth production. And stage more kitten wars. And invite Rush Limbaugh over for a fun little game of Push The Drug-Addled Divorce Junkie Through The Window. Because we’re insured!