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Warning: This is a long post. But it was a long story.

My mother is mad at me. I forgot to pay my grandfather’s car insurance and the policy lapsed. So after I endured a lecture about how if anything happened to that car, we’d be shit out of luck (paraphrased), I promised her I would take care of it.

The only problem was, I couldn’t find the bill. I had it. I called the guy around Thanksgiving. But then I got sick. And then I got sick again. And then I got busy. And then I forgot. Somewhere in that process, I lost the bill. And then I couldn’t remember which company it was with. So I had to call my mother. Again.

She couldn’t remember, either, but she has a better excuse than I do. MoC told me to go to her apartment and find my grandfather’s checkbook. The name would be there. Apparently, he wrote everything down. I didn’t know you were supposed to do that! So that was another day wasted and another trip to her apartment the next day. I got the goods – it was Shelter. Now I just needed the agent’s name.

You might suggest that I could have called the main number and asked for the agent’s name. My question to you would be, “Have you met me?” I talked to the agent, remember? His name was Steve. Probably. My mother told me where the office was located and I looked it up to get the address. I drove past it, turned around, went by it again, turned back around … nothing.

Then I saw a State Farm office with the name STEVE in big bold letters. That was it! It was State Farm, not Shelter. I went in and told my story. Gee, my mom had a stroke and she asked me to take care of this and I talked to you around Thanksgiving, but now I can’t find the bill. He was incredibly nice and looked it up for me. Um, no. My grandfather was not his client, but he was unable to access other agents’ client base. So he called the main office and … my grandfather was not a State Farm client.


But he was really nice and looked up the Shelter guys in the area. One was Steve … and of course, that was it! So I drove there, walked in, told my story and … nope. This Steve has never had my grandfather as a client. But wait, he called the other guy, whose name was Jeff. And Jeff was the man! Jeff, Steve, they sound alike. Since it was about 5 minutes to closing time, he asked Jeff to wait for me.

By this time, I was hungry and the town I was in (which is about 10 miles from where I live) has a fantastic bar-b-que restaurant. I had to rush to get to Jeff’s office, but I didn’t think it was very far and planned to grab a sandwich on my way back.

Are you tired yet? Because this ain’t over, baby.

Only, it wasn’t a few streets over. It was more like seven miles away. Jeff had moved his office, from where I could stop and get a bar-b-que sandwich to another place that was nowhere near it. I drove like a maniac, flew through the door and Jeff was still there. Thank God. I explained the situation AGAIN and said that my grandfather didn’t drive (I didn’t mention that the reason is because he’s dead) but my mother wanted the car  insured. Jeff powered up his little laptop … and told me the policy had lapsed and he had to write a new policy. All he would need is my grandfather’s social security number and driver’s license number. Oh, noes! He told me I could call him the next day with the information.

I was now too close to home to turn around and go back for the bar-b-que. My mother’s apartment is a wreck because we’ve barely unpacked anything. So I called my brother and asked him if he knew where my grandfather’s wallet was. He thought it was probably in the computer room. So I drove to my mom’s, and ransacked the computer room. No wallet. FUCK.

I went back home and called MoC. I told her that the agent had to rewrite the policy and I needed Grandpa’s wallet. I apologized again and said, “This is all my fault.”

And she said, “Yes it is.”


MoC told me the wallet was in her dresser drawer, but since the policy was lapsed, she wanted to move it to her policy. At yet another company. Which might pose a problem since my grandfather is dead. Or not. I mean, it might not pose a problem, not that he might not be dead. He is definitely not living. Or else, he’s seriously pissed right about now.

I went back to MoC’s apartment the next day, found the wallet but no driver’s license.  Not that it would be needed now, but if it had been, I would have been screwed. And still hungry for bar-b-que.

I needed the death certificate and the title. So I called my brother again. He told me that all the stuff from the funeral was in … wait for it … the computer room of my mother’s apartment. I am pretty sure at that point I used some unlady-like language. I hauled my ass back over there and went through everything from the funeral home. Every. Thing. No death certificate.

I went back home and went through a box of papers I brought home to put in a safety deposit box (which is why I kind of freaked when Fiona damn near started a fire). A safety deposit box I can’t get at my mother’s bank because I’m not on the account. That’s a whole other blog rant.  Anyway. I went through everything. I found the title (yay!). It even said “Transfer on death to MoC” – well, not exactly that, but you get the idea. No death certificate. I found six of my father’s death certificates, but I was pretty sure that wasn’t going to work.

I called my brother again (because by this time, I refused to admit to my mother that I had failed. Again). He told me it had to be in the bag from the funeral home. Or in the stuff I already had. One or the other.

I went through the box of papers again. I still didn’t find the copy, but I did find a scroll-type form that had everything I needed, name, date of birth, date of death, cause of death, including a notarization.

The next day I called my mom’s agent. He said I needed the title, the vehicle identification number and the mileage. I told him I had the death certificate.

“Oh, that’s okay, we don’t need that.”