NEVER DO BUSINESS with Jordan Heath Artisan Concrete PART 2

So I wrote this blog post a while ago. The nightmare continues.

We are still without countertops. It’s been 3 months now. Not to mention the 1.5 years we’ve dealt with a mix of no countertops, a plastic sheet and broken concrete countertops.

We recently met with the owner of the company Jordan Heath Artisan Concrete. He was appalled at my blog post, to say the least. He admitted that it was hurting his business (Which wasn’t my aim. My aim was to get their attention so they would fix the problem they caused.) And it worked, I got his attention. He firmly asked that I take down the post and repost if they don’t deliver our countertops by Sunday. When Sunday came and went and we got another excuse, I ignored it and actually believed they would stick to the new deadline of, well, tonight 2 hours ago. When Donnie text them at 6 and they stated 6:30 and 7 as their arrival time, I actually believed it. Donnie did too. He rushed home from our family pizza outing to meet them at our house and clean up for the arrival of the countertops. He turned down a game of ball with his kids because he knew as soon as they arrived, he’d be busy.

Well, 6:30 pm came and went. 7 pm came and went. And here it is 8 pm. Donnie just got a text from them saying it wasn’t finished and they needed more supplies and would let us know. Not, “We’ll be by tomorrow, or the next day.” Open-ended. My first thought, “My blog post is going back up.” I mean, it got results the first time. This is the next step toward contacting lawyer.

No one stands between me and my drugs.

Last Friday I went to the doctor with a terrible sore throat. He said it was probably strep and called in a z-pak right away (he didn’t want me to have to labor through the weekend with this pain).

I went to pick up the script (that’s medical speak for “prescription”).

First fail. After 30 minutes of waiting. The pharmacy “didn’t have” a prescription for me. I had to call and have it re-sent at about 4:50. Luckily they were still open. Got that taken care of.

Second fail. After 20 more minutes, and me with an empty pregnant belly (well almost empty), they told me that they couldn’t sell me the z-pak.

At this point I’m hot, hungry and little nauseous from the nasal spray Doc gave me. “What?!” I said in the nicest, most sane sounding way possible. The pharmacist repeated her exact statement. I replied, “I heard you. I was just shocked.”

I think she was expecting some sort of outburst because she sort of winced as she delivered the following statement, “Your insurance company won’t let us sell it to you since you’ve had this medication too recently.”

Shaking a little from anger and hunger (mostly hunger), as calm as I could possibly speak, I nearly whispered, “So the insurance company decides what’s good for me and not my doctor? Besides, it’s been over a year since I’ve had this type of medicine. How long do I have to wait?”

My throat hurts, my head hurts, I’m starving and nauseous. I’m desperate enough to leap over the counter and grab the meds myself. Can’t be too hard, I’ve seen it on the news a hundred times. You get the little stick and you count the pills on a plastic tray; then you collect your ridiculous paycheck.

I quickly squashed that idea since 1) my vertical leap isn’t what it was 6 months ago (I’d pull a hammy for sure) and 2) I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.

The pharmacist had no clue. To her, a computer software told her, “Don’t sell this medicine to this drug abuser”, or something like that.

I continued, trying not to sound like a drug abuser, “Can you just sell it to me and not tell them?”

She lightened up, “Oh, so you want to pay cash?” As if she’d offered me that option before and I simply opted for the cash route.

Shaking my head, rolling my eyes, and accompanied by a long sigh, I said, “Yes.”

That decision sent the process in motion. She replied, “Ok then, just give me about 20 minutes to fill that order.” Once again, I imagined myself leaping over the counter. (You do crazy things when you are pregnant and hungry). Instead I opted for a bag of corn chips and stood, as impatiently as possible, next to the counter eating handfuls of chips at a time – trying to ignore the looks of pity and disgust from other shoppers.

I spent the rest of the weekend miserable with strep and congestion, but happy because I had my z-pak. If there’s anything to take away from this post, it would be 1) Don’t ask Danielle how her weekend was unless you want a real, 15-minute, dramatic answer or 2) the insurance company never has the last word when it comes to your health.

Unspoken rules for stay-at-home moms?

So I visited my sister in Texas this past weekend. She stays at home with her kids and home schools. She’s always on the clock too. I’ll explain.

I was talking with her and her husband about a friend of mine (stay-at-home mom) whose husband does NOTHING around the house or to help with the kids. My brother-in-law interrupts with, “As he shouldn’t.”

This comment kind of got me thinking. Is there some sort of unspoken rule that stay-at-home moms do everything in the house and for the kids, 24 hours a day? I’ve noticed other couples behaving in a similar manner and just thought, “Wow. Those guys don’t help at all. What jerks.” (I really do think that).

On the other hand, it’s unfair for me to compare their situations with mine (one with two working parents). Our housework and kid-tending is equal (I see to that ).

I guess it mostly bothered me when we were all out and the women were assigned the task of bathing the kids and cleaning up while the men got dinner and beer. Maybe it was my feminist side speaking when I said, “You guys clean the house and take the kids home and bathe them. You haven’t seen them all weekend. We’ll go get the food and beer and be back just in time for everything to be done.”

That didn’t go over too well with Working Dad because he’d actually already helped with breakfast that morning. Check! Done for the day. I finally gave in with a “You owe me” to Donnie and everyone was happy.

Later that night, I considered myself a lucky woman as Donnie lovingly tucked the kids in bed while I lounged on the couch.