"Let us go forth a while, and get better air in our lungs. Let us leave our closed rooms...
The game of ball is glorious."

--Walt Whitman

Monday, December 06, 2004

For This I Have Premiums & a $20 Copay?

Have you ever gone to a doctor and had them basically shrug their shoulders and say, "We've got no idea what's wrong with you. Good luck, have a nice day, and call us if something changes"? And, to add insult to injury, this is a specialist your GP suggested you consult when he ran out of ideas?

Now, I'm no doctor, but you'd think an otolaryngologist (that's an ear-nose-and-throat guy) would have a clue or two about recurring earaches, wouldn't you? I mean, it's not like I went in there with an extra eye sprouting out of my shoulderblade or something. This was not some bizarre condition, and you'd think they'd at least try something. But no, they gave me an exam and a tympanic pressure test and showed me the door. What the hell? The icing on the cake, of course, is that I had to use half a day's vacation time to go to this appointment.

Mr. Third Base Line says it should be legal to hit stupid people over the head with a frying pan. Mother Third Base Line (aka Fourth Pew, Center) counters that there isn't enough time and there aren't enough frying pans. I say it should be legal to hit someone over the head with a frying pan if you're paying them to be smart and they go ahead and act stupid anyway. That's fair, right? I'll get my money's worth one way or another, either in services or that satisfying *bonnnng* sound.

On a lighter note, yesterday I knitted myself a fuzzy scarf out of some sinfully expensive yarn that had been sitting around my yarn bin waiting for its day in the sun. It's fluffy, seafoam green, utterly not my style, and I love it.

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