I woke up this morning to discover that my left eyelid had fused itself shut.
This isn't a normal event. I chalked it up to allergies, pried it open with a wet washcloth, popped in my contacts, and loaded the boys up for my spinning class.
Note: This was a monumentally bad decision.
After class, I looked in the locker room mirror and saw that my eye was red and boogers were oozing out of it.
This was understandably disturbing. My eyes are designed for come-hither glances and the artful application of eyeliner, not as a way-station for green snot.
After infecting the entire gym with my pestilance, the boys and I high-tailed it to my internist. And yes, I had....pink eye.
Pink Eye. Really?
I am thirty-five years old. I have taught in public schools for ten years. I have graded essays with dried green snot on them.
I have never, ever, had pink eye before.
Before my doctor helpfully told me that my eyes looked "gross," he faxed a prescription to Rite Aid.
I know that I do not have the power of the famous bloggers of the world, but I will use my forum to say this: Rite Aid is staffed by idiots and I hate them with the white-hot intensity of a thousand setting suns. With a cherry on top.
They didn't have the eye drops for one of the most common ailments in the world.
This meant I had to go to effing Wal-Mart.
Oh, let me add in this tidbit. My left eye was hurting so much that I took out my left contact, leaving me half-blind, and with no depth perception. Driving my two children around. Awesome sauce.
We arrived at Wal-Mart, and were told we had to wait forty-five minutes. I stalked around, half-blind and bitter, grumbling at my children, and wearing sweaty workout clothes.
In other words, I fit right in.
I bought new lipstick and new powder. Still felt stabby. I bought the fixin' for s'mores. Still felt stabby. Went to the pharmacy to see if my prescription was ready.
The lady told me, "Look, we told you 12:15. You need to take a seat for fifteen more minutes."
Ah, hell naw.
I said, "I just don't understand how hard it is to put drops in a bag. I just don't."
"We have to put you through the system," she said.
"Fine," I grumbled, walking back over to my cart, which Joel was presently filling with containers of Tums. "Okay, boys, we have to wait here for FIFTEEN more minutes. Do your best."
Another employee, heneforth known as the Patron Saint of Wal-Mart, said, "Look, I have kids, too. Four of 'em. You're next."
She took my name, put the drops in a bag, and sent me on my way. We were on our way in three minutes. I love her, and if I ever have a daughter, her name will be Diamonique, in honor of this woman.
Moral of the story? Rite Aid sucks. Wal-Mart sucks too. But, yet, once in awhile, you find that Diamonique in the rough.