Miss Crankypants loves her privacy as much as the next griper, but the creators of the HIPPA laws obviously didn’t think about the many BOOMERANG KIDS who think their parents’ homes are the Holiday Inn.
These adult children, who are mainly of the male persuasion, can’t make their own doctor appointments, much less navigate the maze of options that is Obamacare before the deadline.
Naturally, moms across this great country are frantically trying to help out their lame-o progeny by picking up the phone.Miss Cranky has three lame sons, thereby making her an expert on lameness.
First thing in the morning, she expertly dials the health insurance exchange and deftly navigates the phone tree. She glances at the time: Only two hours have elapsed as she enters, reenters and finally shouts the son’s date of birth into the phone. The phone tree does not like to be shouted at, and starts the menu over again. This goes on until Miss CP gives in and hits “0.”
Her stomach growls all the way through the “this call may be recorded for training purposes,” spiel and she realizes it’s lunch time!
When a real person finally comes on the line, Miss Cranky nearly falls to her knees in gratitude. But wait! The real person is from some foreign country and cannot pronounce “insurance” to save his life. Miss Crankypants keeps getting a mental picture of Rick Moranis’ East Indian partner in the old 90s movie “Short Circuit.” 
She asks the phone guy to repeat what sounds like, “I am happy to take your abomination” six times. On the seventh try, she screams, “Just sign my son up for health insurance! That’s all I want!”
Miss CP swears the voice on the line tells her not to have a cow.
Not only that but he keeps calling her ma’am. Old ladies are ma’ams! Miss Crankypants is not a ma’am. “Look,” she says through her clenched teeth, “My son’s name is ___. Can you please sign ___ up for health insurance? Pretty please?”
“OK. You want to sign your son up for health insurance?”
“That’s what I just said.”
“OK. In that case I will need your date of birth.”
“It’s not for me. It’s for my son.”
“OK. Your date of birth please, ma’am?”
“Maybe I should just talk to your supervisor.”
“OK. I am here to help you in any way I can, OK. What can I do for you today, ma’am?”
“Get me your supervisor.”
A pause. Miss Crankypants can hear background chatter that sounds suspiciously like a telemarketing boiler room. Miss CP is so starved she’s about to gnaw off her own arm.
Finally a voice. “What is it that we are here to help you with today, ma’am?” Unfortunately it’s the same voice or his identical twin, but Miss CP bravely gives it her all.
“I’d like to sign my son up for Obamacare.”
“OK. And I will be needing your son’s date of birth, OK, ma’am?” Finally! Progress!
She gives the son’s lame-o DOB for the fortieth time.
A long pause. “OK, ma’am? This is the date of birth for a someone who is of legal age, OK?”
“And?”
“OK, ma’am. We cannot give you any information, OK? The HEEPPA laws are of the protecting the privacy of all the individuals circulating. OK, ma’am?”
Miss Crankypants thinks about threatening to march right over there and show the phone guy her stretch marks, brought on by giving birth to lame-o son. But she never gets this far, as the voice cheerfully says, “OK, ma’am? Is there anything else of which we can be helping you today?”
Miss Crankypants hangs up. Let the kid find his own way through Obamacare. HIPPA-hooray.