Hot Receptionist, Hot Nurse...
... but in the end, it was the insurance company that screwed me.
Bollocks.
Okay, so last July I went to have my teeth cleaned. They took X-Rays, and my dentist, a friend of my folks' from high school, told me that it was time to have my wisdom teeth out. Now, I've never, ever wanted to have my wisdom teeth out, but I'm a man, right? And a man does what his doctor (or, in this case, dentist) tells him. Well, at least in most cases.
Anyway, so I couldn't do it at the time; it was days before I left for England. And I couldn't do it when I got back from England last year, because I got home on a Wednesday night and started my last year at [Generic University] on the following Monday. I should have done it during Christmas holiday, or Spring holiday; we'll come to those in a minute, but the point is that I had the time, and since The Mirror didn't come to visit during Spring holiday as originally planned, I didn't have to worry about entertaining her (and allowing her to entertain me).
So when was the next possible time to have them out? Right after I graduated. Unfortunately, I had one week off, most of which was spent working or prepping for my graduation party, and the next week I started eight weeks of Arabic, which concluded last week. In the interim, I was under the impression from my mother, who's the world's leading expert on miscommunicating or fabricating incorrect information, that my insurance coverage ended on my twenty-third birthday. On Friday and Saturday, we (and by we, I mean me, my parents, and the office) received word that my insurance would end on 1st September. For those of you who haven't been taught how to read a calendar, that's almost two months after my twenty-third birthday.
On Monday afternoon I walked into my dentist's office and walked out with a new copy of the original referral to the oral surgeon's office. I took it down to the oral surgeon's office, a fancy new building that opened weeks, not months, ago right down the street from my flat. Good to go, right? I set up a consultation appointment for today, Thursday, and got onto a cancellation list since they were booked well into September.
So back to today, I show up to my consultation this afternoon at 15:30, and once again interact with the little hottie receptionist, the adornment of whose left ring finger can only be described as "impressive". Not that I'd have any chance if she were single, and not that I'd actually try to pick up a receptionist working in a professional setting, but still. Bollocks.
So once I have the paperwork filled out, I sit for a few more minutes, doing some administrative stuff of my own and finally grabbing a copy of a backpacking magazine from the rack. A couple of minutes later the nurse calls my name, and I head back. She's gorgeous, probably better looking than the receptionist and, bingo, engagement ring. Bollocks.
She asks me a few questions, takes my blood pressure, and turns on the cheesy video explaining wisdom teeth surgery and the possible complications. I'm thinking, "Yeah, this looks like a whole lot of bullshit that I don't want to be dealing with two weeks after I'm off the insurance." So I mention that to Nurse Engaged, who happens to be extremely friendly, and she assures me that after-care would be included, and I wouldn't have to worry about it. Once we're through, she leaves to go check on something, and comes back with my X-Ray from last year, which had just arrived on the top of the pile from the dentist's office. We review the record, and then she goes to check on something with my insurance.
A couple of minutes later she comes back. There's a problem. Our office changed insurance providers last December, and the new company has an interesting policy: with respect to dental coverage, they'll pay for cleanings and preventative maintenance during the first year, but not treatment. What is wisdom tooth extraction classified as? If you're still not sure where this is going, you should be reading Eye'm Off My Rocker, not Thus Saith the Fly.
So that's it, game over. I'm not covered to have my wisdom teeth out, and since I'm a twenty-three year old university grad with about $1300 in my bank account, and the surgery costs about $1450, the wisdom teeth that I didn't want out in the first place are now financially confined to my mandible and skull.
So Nurse Engaged, still friendly, leaves me alone again to check and see if the doctor still wants to meet briefly with me. After sitting for at lesat ten minutes, probably longer, she shows back up and informs me that yes, in fact, the doctor does want to meet with me, which means I'm stuck there. She asks me if she can get me a magazine, and I tell her which one, and she comes back with it, saying that she might have to get a hold of it later since she and her fiance (bollocks) are going to Hawaii next Summer on their honeymoon and backpacking in the jungle or some other such nonsense. I explain that mainly I'm interested in packs, because all I've used thus far is an ALICE Pack when backpacking through Europe. She leaves.
A couple of minutes later she comes back, sits down next to me and... If you're Lycan, you're thinking that this ends with "... gives me a nice, friendly happy ending." That would be incorrect. She sits down next to me and says "Okay, what have we got here, let's look together," referring to the magazine. So here, with this untouchable engaged nurse, I look through packs for a few moments until the doctor shows up. I'm reassured once again that I won't be charged for the consultation, and the doctor explains a few things to me, looks in my mouth, and calls it good. The nurse shows me out.
So, let's review:
On the pulchritude front, there's water, water everywhere, but it's all contained in secured water towers.
Due to a pair of loopholes, my insurance company screws me out of a minor medical procedure, saving them $1450 and costing them my respect. My respect is currently worthless, but I vow that someday it will come back to haunt them.
Overall, I have a feeling of utter worthlessness, as if I'm the only one not getting any action (other than Anachronism, but that's beyond help), and not worth my insurance company's time and effort.
The solution? Skip today's workout, order a large pizza, and enjoy it with a pint and a half of Guinness, and go to bed early, once again failing the day's mission; then get up again tomorrow and conquer the day, thus reestablishing within my mind the assurance that I am a conquerer and a holy instrument of God's divine vengeance... Er... Yeah, a conquerer.
I'm feeling dejected. If you've read this entire post, leave me some encouragement. Reassure me. Please.
Bollocks.
Okay, so last July I went to have my teeth cleaned. They took X-Rays, and my dentist, a friend of my folks' from high school, told me that it was time to have my wisdom teeth out. Now, I've never, ever wanted to have my wisdom teeth out, but I'm a man, right? And a man does what his doctor (or, in this case, dentist) tells him. Well, at least in most cases.
Anyway, so I couldn't do it at the time; it was days before I left for England. And I couldn't do it when I got back from England last year, because I got home on a Wednesday night and started my last year at [Generic University] on the following Monday. I should have done it during Christmas holiday, or Spring holiday; we'll come to those in a minute, but the point is that I had the time, and since The Mirror didn't come to visit during Spring holiday as originally planned, I didn't have to worry about entertaining her (and allowing her to entertain me).
So when was the next possible time to have them out? Right after I graduated. Unfortunately, I had one week off, most of which was spent working or prepping for my graduation party, and the next week I started eight weeks of Arabic, which concluded last week. In the interim, I was under the impression from my mother, who's the world's leading expert on miscommunicating or fabricating incorrect information, that my insurance coverage ended on my twenty-third birthday. On Friday and Saturday, we (and by we, I mean me, my parents, and the office) received word that my insurance would end on 1st September. For those of you who haven't been taught how to read a calendar, that's almost two months after my twenty-third birthday.
On Monday afternoon I walked into my dentist's office and walked out with a new copy of the original referral to the oral surgeon's office. I took it down to the oral surgeon's office, a fancy new building that opened weeks, not months, ago right down the street from my flat. Good to go, right? I set up a consultation appointment for today, Thursday, and got onto a cancellation list since they were booked well into September.
So back to today, I show up to my consultation this afternoon at 15:30, and once again interact with the little hottie receptionist, the adornment of whose left ring finger can only be described as "impressive". Not that I'd have any chance if she were single, and not that I'd actually try to pick up a receptionist working in a professional setting, but still. Bollocks.
So once I have the paperwork filled out, I sit for a few more minutes, doing some administrative stuff of my own and finally grabbing a copy of a backpacking magazine from the rack. A couple of minutes later the nurse calls my name, and I head back. She's gorgeous, probably better looking than the receptionist and, bingo, engagement ring. Bollocks.
She asks me a few questions, takes my blood pressure, and turns on the cheesy video explaining wisdom teeth surgery and the possible complications. I'm thinking, "Yeah, this looks like a whole lot of bullshit that I don't want to be dealing with two weeks after I'm off the insurance." So I mention that to Nurse Engaged, who happens to be extremely friendly, and she assures me that after-care would be included, and I wouldn't have to worry about it. Once we're through, she leaves to go check on something, and comes back with my X-Ray from last year, which had just arrived on the top of the pile from the dentist's office. We review the record, and then she goes to check on something with my insurance.
A couple of minutes later she comes back. There's a problem. Our office changed insurance providers last December, and the new company has an interesting policy: with respect to dental coverage, they'll pay for cleanings and preventative maintenance during the first year, but not treatment. What is wisdom tooth extraction classified as? If you're still not sure where this is going, you should be reading Eye'm Off My Rocker, not Thus Saith the Fly.
So that's it, game over. I'm not covered to have my wisdom teeth out, and since I'm a twenty-three year old university grad with about $1300 in my bank account, and the surgery costs about $1450, the wisdom teeth that I didn't want out in the first place are now financially confined to my mandible and skull.
So Nurse Engaged, still friendly, leaves me alone again to check and see if the doctor still wants to meet briefly with me. After sitting for at lesat ten minutes, probably longer, she shows back up and informs me that yes, in fact, the doctor does want to meet with me, which means I'm stuck there. She asks me if she can get me a magazine, and I tell her which one, and she comes back with it, saying that she might have to get a hold of it later since she and her fiance (bollocks) are going to Hawaii next Summer on their honeymoon and backpacking in the jungle or some other such nonsense. I explain that mainly I'm interested in packs, because all I've used thus far is an ALICE Pack when backpacking through Europe. She leaves.
A couple of minutes later she comes back, sits down next to me and... If you're Lycan, you're thinking that this ends with "... gives me a nice, friendly happy ending." That would be incorrect. She sits down next to me and says "Okay, what have we got here, let's look together," referring to the magazine. So here, with this untouchable engaged nurse, I look through packs for a few moments until the doctor shows up. I'm reassured once again that I won't be charged for the consultation, and the doctor explains a few things to me, looks in my mouth, and calls it good. The nurse shows me out.
So, let's review:
The solution? Skip today's workout, order a large pizza, and enjoy it with a pint and a half of Guinness, and go to bed early, once again failing the day's mission; then get up again tomorrow and conquer the day, thus reestablishing within my mind the assurance that I am a conquerer and a holy instrument of God's divine vengeance... Er... Yeah, a conquerer.
I'm feeling dejected. If you've read this entire post, leave me some encouragement. Reassure me. Please.
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