Monthly Archives: October 2014

Pharmacological Distress

I am of the belief that there should be separate lines at the pharmacy—not like at McDonald’s, where you just get in the shortest line and hope that your line moves at a rate faster than that of a sloth trudging through quicksand.  Nay, nay.  Not that kind of separation.  Instead, I propose this.
There should be THREE separate lines at the pharmacy, and they should follow these guidelines:
Line 1—The Do-You-Even-HAVE-A-Prescription?? Line
(This is also known as the What-the-Fuck-Is-Wrong-With-You???Line)
This line is reserved for people who will undoubtedly stand at the window looking at the pharmacist like they just woke up from a 5-year coma and quite possibly don’t know what the hell year it is, let alone whether or not they even have a prescription waiting for them behind the counter.  These people will ask the pharmacist at least five questions that are completely unnecessary, argue about insurance coverage, and/or feel the need to discuss the average mating age of the giant panda…all while 20 people are waiting in line behind them.
(Clearly, these people are the ones with NOWHERE to go and NOTHING to do with their lives.  Also, they will be shat upon by incontinent unicorns, because I deem it so.)
(Yes, I have just had an unpleasant waiting experience at the pharmacy.)

(Also, if you are over the age of 75, it should be MANDATORY that your prescriptions are delivered to you.  You MAY NOT harass the pharmacy for your meds.  End of story.)
Line 2—The Line for the Only Moderately Retarded
(Otherwise Known as the I-Think-I-Have-Insurance-But-Maybe-I-Shit-My-Pants Line)
These people feel certain they are in the CORRECT line, however, they either cannot find their insurance card, are unsure of the status of their insurance, or have possibly forgotten to SEE the doctor altogether—and now, here they stand, in front of 50 other people, attempting to straighten out their shit when they should have straightened out their shit WAY sooner.  (I probably should not hate these people as much as the people in Line 1, but for some reason, I do.)
These are the people that look longingly at the pharmacist like he or she is the Great Oz and can conjure up a prescription (or insurance) simply by running behind the curtain and waving some sort of Ritalin wand.  WTF, people?  Get your shit together or get out of the line.
Line 3—The Line for the People Who Have Shit to Do
This is the line for the people who have a prescription, have insurance OR cash, want to get their shit and get out.  Give me my drugs, I’ll give you the money, thank you…have a nice day.  This line keeps moving, because these people want to go home.  THIS is the line you want to be in, but if you get in this line when you don’t belong here, I’ma gonna cut you.
And those, my friends, are the new pharmacy rules.  Screw going postal.  I’m going pharmacological.

The Satanic Neighbor Kid

I seem to remember a time when my mom banned me from playing with the neighbor kid—namely the one with the cool mom who gave us wine coolers to drink in the garage.  I thought she was totes cool, but apparently my mom thought that it was unacceptable for her to ply 12-year-olds with wine coolers instead of sugar-laden 25-cent cans of Shasta.  So my mom was an ogre because she banned me from hanging out in the garage with the kids that just so happened to have the coolest mom in the history of EVER.  Instead, I had to play with my cousin and my little brother.  Swell.
Fast forward to today.  My kids want to play with some demon spawn who insists on coming into our garage or our house and destroying anything he can possibly get his sticky, grubby little hands on.  Ok, it’s not like his mom is trying to serve my kids booze or anything, but when is it ok to say enough is enough and ban little Beelzebub from our house?
It’s gotten bad enough that I find myself secretly hoping that he’ll hit a rock with his skateboard as he ever-so-slickly goes zooming by.  I envision his California-blonde-blow-in-the-wind locks whipping around his face as he flies through the air, and just before he lands on his scrawny ass, I will say, “A-ha!  Take that!”
But hear me out, I have good reason.  Just the other day, he was in our garage, whacking the living shit out of a Styrofoam cooler until it looked like the Jolly Green Giant had a raging case of dandruff.  Then he proceeded to puncture the pool rafts before he sped away on his zippy little skateboard.  And this was only a couple of days after he called my youngest kid a “loser face” inside our house.  I have sent this kid packing numerous times, and I’m thinking it’s time to draw the line.  (Yes, I know it was ONLY a Styrofoam cooler, but dammit, it was MY Styrofoam cooler!)
So just in case your child happens to be Satan incarnate and also just in case you happen to be freakishly unaware of this problem, I’ve come up with a handy-dandy list to help you out.
How to tell if your child might be the devil:
  • Neighbors start to provide you with airfare for your child, most of which is one-way.
  • When your child rings the neighbors’ doorbells, all the curtains instantly get pulled shut and the lights go out.
  • If your child is playing in the yard, cars actually make u-turns in the street and go in the opposite direction.
  • Brochures for military “camp” start mysteriously showing up in your mailbox.
  • You start to receive calls regarding your recent application to appear on Super Nanny.
  • All of the houses on your street, except for yours, have For Sale signs in the yard.
  • Your child’s trick or treat bucket is filled with Ritalin flyersinstead of candy.

It’s not that I don’t want my kids to have friends.  But what the hell with the possessed kid?  If you are sending your kids to someone else’s house, please perform an exorcism first.  Please and thank you.  We will do the same.

The Very Worst Day

I could be wrong, but I am going to propose a theory that 7-year-olds are masters of hyperbole. Either that, or my kid’s life really and truly sucks.
Yesterday started off quite nicely.  I packed them all off to school.  They had mini chocolate doughnuts in their breakfast bags, so how could things go wrong?  Or so I thought.
And school was ok.  No homework.  So-so lunches.  But it was after school that really rocked their little worlds.  Because Daddy-Who-Walks-On-Water had told them all about FREE FAMILY FUN NIGHT AT PARADISE PARK!!  Could life actually ever get any better?
(P.S. Mommy wanted to kill Daddy.)
Paradise Park is actually a nice, fun family park place with mini-golf and bumper cars and climbing walls and all sorts of fun mayhem for kids and parents alike…all conveniently located for your recreational pleasure.  And it would have been great—if EVERY. SINGLE. KID. IN. THE. DISTRICT. hadn’t decided to go on that particular night.
And of course they were all there because it was free night.  I would rather pay.  I would have paid thrice the price for half the people.  It would have been worth it.
But, nay.  Daddy-the-Magnificent had mentioned the event, and so we had to go.  And so we went.
And it was sticky.  And hot.  And very, very loud.  (Dear parents of screamers, do you not notice your child screaming like a banshee?  If you are, indeed, oblivious to this, it is possible you are taking entirely too much medication.)
But it was fun.  Because my kids had fun.  We played mini-golf, and the boys only nearly-decapitated me twice, so I felt fairly safe.  Marissa’s glasses were nearly smashed by a wayward swing of Jordan’s club, but after that, she stood a little farther back, so it was all good.  There was laughter and sweat and stickiness.
(What IS that sticky stuff that gets all over my kids’ hands?  Where does it come from?  Is it like sweat?  Does it actually come from the pores of small children?  Do they secrete sugar?  Or Skittle juice?)
And then we went upstairs to the hot dog room.  Where they promptly informed us they had run out of hot dogs.  How the hell do you run out of hot dogs at the hot dog/free night/play event?  We were even PAYING for the hot dogs, so someone was losing out on some hot dog profit.  Dammit.  I thought dinner was covered, but as it turned out, I was going to have to stop on the way home.
So we left—after cashing in our 450 tickets.  (As it turned out, I paid $25 for game tokens, wherein the kids earned 450 tickets, with which they purchased 2 cans of Sierra Mist, a handful of Skittles and Tootsie Rolls and a pair of plastic sunglasses.  So essentially, I got mugged by the Dollar Store at this event.)
And after we left, Jordan got to pick McDonald’s for dinner.  And that’s when Jadon informed me, “THIS IS THE WORST DAY OF MY LIFE!!”
He wanted Taco Bell.  But he picked Taco Bell last time, so it was Jordan’s turn.
“I guess I’ll just starve to death.”
So I agreed.  “Yep, you should probably do that.”  Because I’m mean.
But by the time we got to McDonald’s, he decided that he would rather have a Happy Meal than starve to death, so he went for the pain and suffering of the boxed meal of happiness.

And we all lived happily ever after.  And then we went home and washed the stickiness and trauma of the event off.  Next time it’s free night, I’m sending Super-Daddy.


I’ve been schooled.  Or enlightened.  Or whatever you want to call it.  The fact is, I just got TOLD.
This morning, while dropping the boys off at school, I did my usually huggy-kissy-mom-thing, and Jadon asked, “Mom, when’s Dad coming back?”
I answered, “Well, he’s out of town until Thursday.  Why?”
And he said, “You aren’t supposed to be hugging me and kissing me and telling me you are gonna miss me RIGHT HERE IN THE CAFETERIA IN FRONT OF EVERYONE.”
Oh.  Well then.
All he was missing was the eye roll, and he could have totally passed for a disgruntled teenager.  Except he’s SEVEN, and I am supposed to do all the huggy-kissy-mom-stuffstill.
I shared my plight with my husband, who quickly informed me, “You’re doing it wrong.”
He continued explaining, “I give one quick hug in the gym—BEFORE we are in front of other people.  Geez, why are you embarrassing the kid?

And now I shall pack up my mom-slobbers and try to see through my tears to find my way to a hollowed-out tree deep in the woods where I can live a lonely existence, storing up all my embarrassing mom things and bestowing them only on stray squirrels who happen to pass by.  Sniff.