Quick, Toss Me That Antidote

I am not feeling like myself today. Something is percolating. Bubbling to the surface. I can't stop it. It's about to erupt like a grossly-overloaded zit being squeezed and recorded for posterity on YouTube.

I have the urge to commend somebody for a job well done.

Yeah. It feels as foreign for me to type those words as it does for you to read them. Here's the situation. Thursday morning, I called in some prescription refills. It just so happens that my pharmacy is one that has been bought out by a larger chain. Nothing but problems have ensued since the changeover started. People wait in lengthy lines, only to be told that their insurance company is not responding to calls. That the pharmacy is out of stock in that particular medicine. That Express Scripts denies their coverage.

Last month, I was given the runaround on a particular prescription. The reason, it seems, that it cost me thirty-four dollars more than in previous months was that one of my two insurances was not responding. Just bring my receipt next time to get a refund when the insurance responds. You guessed it. I did that. Nope. It was more because the doctor needed to write a letter to the insurance telling them that I can't take the generic. Yep. It was totally an issue between me an my doctor. I turned down their offer of a great deal on swampland in Florida.

Thursday morning, I called in the refills to the automated system. I knew better than to try and pick them up Thursday afternoon. So I waited until Friday afternoon. What do you know! One was not filled. But the counter girl without a name tag looked it up, and said she would have it filled if I wanted to wait. Which kind of defeats the purpose of calling it in the day before so it would be ready. But I waited.

A different girl, more of a gal, really, called me when it was ready. She rang it up. I stopped before scanning my debit card. "Are you sure that's right? Because I paid a lot more last month." Beth, the gal, checked. It was the overcharged prescription, back to its regular price. I explained my previous runaround, in which she had no part. She said she would check on it for me. That it would be worth the wait if she could get me a refund. So I waited.

Finally, a matron called my name. Hers was Donna. She knows me on sight. She rang up my order at the lower price, and shoved thirty-four dollars and seven cents across the counter. "Let's take care of this refund first." No asking for the old receipt, or my ID, or my insurance cards. Just cash on the countertop, baby!

I have a good mind to call the local paper and nominate Unknown, Beth, and Donna for the adult version of Caught Being Good. Or write a letter to their store manager complimenting them on their customer service skills. I'm so giddy, I might just do both.

I think I have a fever.