Swiffer Vacuum And Why I Hate Going To The Doctor (Two Totally Unrelated Events)

First off, if you have hard floors in your house, run, I repeat RUN, out to your nearest store and buy a Swiffer Vacuum. It is unbelievable. It is cordless, weighs about three pounds, and gets all of those little floor tumbleweeds quicker than anything I have ever seen. And it can get the stairs and baseboards, too. Now I know you may be thinking that blogging about a vacuum is pathetic and lame (which is probably true), but go get yourself a Swiffer Vac and I promise that you will be making sweet, sweet love to it before nightfall.

In other news, we went to the doctor yesterday because the boys both have ear infections in both ears. Lovely. So amoxicillin, our dear old friend, we welcome you back into our lives for the next ten days. How we have missed your sweet orange taste!

Just so I don't seem ungrateful, let me take a moment to say that I appreciate all that our doctor does for us. She is sweet, attentive, and very calm and rational. Not one of those doctors who makes you freak out about things. So now that that is said, I will proceed to bash the hell out of her office.

The first problem is the waiting room, which I prefer to call Germy Ghetto Toyland. Besides the fact that the toys are probably coated with every germ known to mankind, they are the saddest looking bunch of toys I have ever seen. There is a train track with no train, a kitchen with no pots or pans, three or four Leggos, and a car with one wheel. It looks like the kind of stuff that people wouldn't even buy at a garage sale. The stuff that if you offered it to The Salvation Army, they would politely say, "No thanks." If you left these toys by your trash, homeless people who saw them would not even bother taking them to their children.

But of course, my kids want to play with these toys, so I grit my teeth, throw some suspicious looks at that kid playing with the one-wheeled car -- hey, what is that weird rash all over his face? -- and let my kids play. Then when we leave, I burn their clothes and scrub them with bleach. Of course, three days from now, they will probably have a rash on their faces, and that boy with the weird rash will likely have an ear infection, all thanks to the superhuman germ breeding ground that is Germy Ghetto Toyland.

The biggest problem, though, is Moron Girl, the receptionist. When I get to the doctor, I drop my kids off at Germy Ghetto Toyland, walk past the kid with the weird rash, and go to sign my kids in. Yesterday, when I called to make the appointment, Moron Girl answered the phone. She said to come in at 8:45 a.m. When I clarified that I would be bringing in BOTH boys, she said to still come in at 8:45, but that I would have to wait. Huh? So I said that since she knew I would have to wait, shouldn't I just come in a little later? Nope, apparently that would just make too much sense. So I am already annoyed at her when I arrive. Then the bitch ASKED ME FOR A COPAY!!! Now this may not seem like a big deal, so let me give you a little bit of history. Here is the conversation that I have had with Moron Girl every single appointment for the last 3 1/2 years:

Her: You owe a $40 copay.

Me: No, I don't. Our insurance carrier doesn't require a copay until age 6.

Her: Really?!

Me: Really.

Her: REALLY???!!!

Me: Yes.

But yesterday, since I was tired (because of insomnia), sick (because I am no doubt getting whatever the boys have), and pissed off (because I hate having to deal with morons, especially when I am sick and tired), THIS is the conversation that I had with Moron Girl:

Her: You owe a $40 copay.

Me: No, I don't. Our insurance carrier doesn't require a copay until age 6.

Her: Really?!

Me: Really.

Her: REALLY???!!!

Me: Okay, listen. I have had this exact conversation with you I don't know how many times over the last 3 1/2 years. WE DON"T HAVE A COPAY. So do you think that, just maybe, you could write yourself a little note on that chart that you pull out every single time so that we might possibly avoid having this conversation another 300 times??!!

Her: Bitch. (Not that she said it, but I know she was thinking it.)

Me: Stupid fucking moron. (Under my breath, once I had returned to Germy Ghetto Toyland and sat in a slime-coated chair.)



I won't even tell you about the trip to the pharmacy that followed, but let's just say that the people there make Moron Girl look like a Harvard Grad. Just to give you an idea, though, the cashier didn't know how to open the cash register. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. Does anyone else need a drink? I wonder if amoxicillin tastes good when mixed with vodka.