Okay. So Coco-pop doesn't have insurance. That's not the worst thing in the world. Like, on a scale from 1 to 10, 1 being a romantic getaway in the Carribean and 10 being the Holocaust, and 4 being Coco-pop doesn't have any insurance, it would be, well, I guess it would be around a 4, then.
This country is a falafel sandwich wrapped in chest hair, wrapped inside red tape. This is the third time that Outdoorsman went down to the Misrad Hapnim (Ministry of Interior, as in the interior of your SOUL, which they will SUCK out and LEAVE you STANDING THERE SOUL-LESS), and the third time that he was turned away for incorrect paperwork, and also, the previous sentence is a terribly disgusting one and also doesn't really work. Also what I wrote in quotes doesn't work. I am too annoyed to make sentences work.
This time, the letter from his Rabbi neglected to state that he was Jewish. He should have whipped out the picture of his grandfather with his gloriously Jewish shnozola and removed all doubts.
So Coco-pop doesn't have insurance since her temporary one-year insurance ran out (see, they know it takes a YEAR to get on the insurance. Proof! That they do it ON PURPOSE! Arrrrrgh! And me with no vodka in the freezer! The timing could not be worse!)
It's a 4. It's just a 4. A blip on the radar of alarm.
Speaking of blips and radars, Coco-pop just woke up from her nap. Her cry sounds a little...nasal? A little snotty? A little....sick?
Oh G-d. Just let me know when I can panic. I'll be sitting here, waiting, drinking warm vodka and orange juice.