If This Was The 1950s, HM Would Be Wearing A Sandwich Board

We are all fat and sassy and vaccinated now. And by we, I mean me and nigh on 20 of my closest fellow educators. I'm sure Elementia and Basementia partook of the traveling needle-wielders as well, but I can't speak for their numbers.

As with any extraordinary situation, and most routine activities...Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has a bone to pick with that dastardly, conspiring universe.

It all started with the mass vaccinations at the workplace. Okay, some faculty members requested the return of the on-site flu shots. It was arranged. And you'll never in a million years guess who selflessly volunteered time and resources to maintain our fatness and sassiness. That's right! You got it in less than a million nanoseconds! Ceilingreds!

I should have suspected something nefarious coming down the pike when we were ordered to complete paperwork and attach copies of our insurance cards and turn that classified information in to the office to be picked up by Ceilingreds' representative 24 hours prior to vaccination zero hour. The Devil would never place such demands on people planning to get their fat sassy vaccinations in his Playground. In fact, he does not even require formal dress such as pants.

Last year, I popped into Ceilingreds when it was still my Mom&Pop Chain Pharmacy. I went into a converted closet or bathroom, and had my flu shot administered by their traveling RN who was older than Methuselah's great-great-grandpappy. Other years, I've gotten shotten at school, by the county health center employees. For convenience's sake, I filled out my form for Ceilingreds, and attached copies of both my primary and secondary insurance cards.

The next morning, I woke up with a sore throat. On the day of the flu shots. Courtesy of the unholy triumvirate: M&M Gifter, Farmer H the Midnight Breather, and the teacher lunch table dude who burst into spontaneous cough, sending a spray of phlegm onto my water bottle. I declared that maybe I should hold off on the shot. Then I grew worried that Ceilingreds had my paperwork. They might start an insurance company rumor that I was getting double shots if I went elsewhere once my snottage was gone. But no. Surely I was just being paranoid. Ceilingreds wouldn't bill my insurace until I actually got the shot. Right? RIGHT?

The more I stewed over the improprieties foisted upon me by Ceilingreds, the more I was certain that they had already billed both of my insurances for my as-yet-unadministered flu vaccine. By the time I got to school that morning, I had made the decision to face the flu-shooting squad.

Good thing. As I stood in line at the nurse's office, gawking at others being shot, debating whether to ask if this was the intramuscular or the intradermal vaccine...I noticed a curious routine. As soon as the needle was yanked out of the faculty flesh, a receipt with attached dosage information was pulled from a bag and handed to the newly immune. WHAT IF SOMEBODY DID NOT SHOW UP TO BE SHOT? What if they called in sick? Ran off the road and into a ravine? Took a midnight plane to Tahiti?

I submitted my arm for stabbage. Accepted my receipt. And saw that I had been vaccinated at 3:15 the previous afternoon.

Thank the Gummi Mary I showed up for my shot! Or the next time I went to get one, I would be refused, and interrogated for attempted triple-dipping in the influenza vaccine bowl.

The most disturbing portion of the ordeal was this:

Next year, I'm afraid a tiny branding iron will become the new band aid, cauterizing the injection hole and searing the Ceilingreds logo onto my flesh at the same time.