Originally published March 24, 2012
So, we’ve established that I live out in the middle of Crazytown, county of Dogfuck, State of Nowhere. It isn’t the most remote location in my past, and usually not even the scariest.
Unless you lose all sense of reality and cross the tracks, finding yourself without salt for dinner or to banish demons and a lack of common sense sends you to the scary grocery store and pharmacy that is physically closest to my house. Personally, I don’t usually shop there. I’m particular about what I purchase, and frankly, if I felt the need to hunt my meal, I’d buy a gun and go shoot something edible, and relieve some stress while at it. I believe that if it comes packaged at the store, I should be able to leave the safari gear at home because I’ll find my ingredients in ordered aisles with signs to point the way.
Until this weekend when a friend needed a prescription picked up. This friend, I’m gonna call him Sparhawk for reference, Sparhawk is less discerning than I am. It’s the most convenient store for his needs, also being the closest pharmacy to his house. And one pharmacy is much like the next…
This is my yeah right face. See how I believe that.
So anyway, when I dropped the prescription off, the tech told me it would be about twenty minutes. Which is less time than it took me to find the grocery items that I needed, because this very scary location doesn’t believe in stocking their shelves, and they certainly can’t be bothered with putting things where they might make sense — such as putting potatoes with other potatoes so you can see all options for your potato needs. No, you have one choice (which is a honkin huge bag for way more than I’m willing to spend on even my most favorite of foods) and then you have to hunt for other variety. Please, see my above opinion on hunting for my food. Potatoes should either be in the ground in a garden, in a bag in the produce department, or on my plate. There is no need to hunt for them because they CAN’T HIDE. Where’s the sport? Anyway, that’s a tangent for another day.
Half an hour later, with potatoes and without milk (they carry chocolate drink but chocolate milk is too decadent apparently), I went to pick up the prescription, and it wasn’t ready. Normally, waiting wouldn’t be a big deal, but I had used up my patience and silence when I had to stalk and hunt my frickin potatoes, so I was not in a mood to wait, especially considering that there was no one in the pharmacy. Two techs, a pharmacist, the store manager, a sales clerk, and me. And my prescription wasn’t ready. It isn’t like they even have a drive through that needed attention. They don’t.
So, I’m not a pharmcist. I haven’t been to pharmacist school, and I don’t know latin and can’t even pronounce some of the names of medications in my medicine cabinet. But I’m smart enough to know that the prescription I was picking up was simple enough to consist of taking six boxes off a shelf and putting them in a bag with Sparhawk’s name on it. That’s it. It didn’t need to be counted, measured, compounded, or mixed. There was no shaking, no signing, no explanations necessary. Move six boxes from a dusty shelf and put them in a bag. NOT ROCKET SCIENCE. And it’s now been 40 minutes since I dropped it off and it isn’t ready.
But the pharmacy tech was nice enough to offer me a seat while I waited. “Are you kidding me? Sick people sit in those chairs. I can’t sit there. I don’t know what I could catch. Do you have any hand sanitizer? I couldn’t find it on the shelf. I would think in a pharmacy, you’d want to have that stuff all over the place, because even if you can’t see them, germs are everywhere.”
She winced. And I waited. Huddled at the counter, talking about germs. And sick people. At one point, I wandered off and found a “flavored” type of hand sanitizer — sunburst citrus or something that was supposed to smell good and not like alcohol. So I asked, “Does this really work? I don’t think I want something that smells good. I just don’t trust it. Where’s the good stuff? You know, the one that knocks the germs right off ya?” And came back to the counter to huddle, carefully avoiding touching anything, holding my purse to my chest and probably looking like a crazed squirrel trying to decide if someone was going to steal my nut.
That’s when I heard it. “Do you have Sparhawk ready? This woman’s been waiting and we really need to get that for her.” To which I just nodded sagely, and used my sleeve to wipe a germ off the counter.
Eventually, they managed to get the six boxes into the bag, and asked me to sign for it. But I couldn’t use their pen. Sick people use that pen. So I made the girl wait while I rummaged through my purse to find a suitable writing utensil. There’s a lot of stuff in my purse that needs to be cleaned out. This weekend, it worked to my advantage. I’m sure they all thought I was crazy.
Which was exactly what I wanted. My brand of crazy motivated them to get me out of their store and that suited me just fine.