Funny Pharmacy Stories

Man comes in to buy insulin syringes and brings one from home. Gets cranky because he can’t figure out what kind he normally gets based on the one he brought in. Claims he doesn’t need the old one and wants the pharmacy to dispose of it. Although we sell sharps containers, we do not in fact have one because we don’t use syringes. Dude gets more cranky becauase of that. Pays for the new syringes and throws his old syringe over the counter behind the cashier. Who does that??? Seriously dude, you’re buying more syringes, just take the damn old one home, don’t act like a 2 year old and throw down something you don’t want anymore in a fit! How freaking rude! And that wasn’t even the wierdest thing of the day!

I’m Making It.

I GOT INTO PHARMACY SCHOOL! All by myself. I don’t need him and I’m succeeding where I never could have with him. Life moves on and while I thought that for a while it never would, I think it’s going to be ok… I hope. I’m actually hoping now. Though its going to push me to my absolute limits to get through, I am going to get through. Its amazing.

Pure Hatred

 

Pure Hatred

 

 

How is it possible for an emotional journey to go from obsessive love of a person to pure and utter hatred? It seems impossible but its not. A matter of 3 years has taken me from adoration to killing fury. I have never had more animosity towards anyone else combined. I have never wanted someone to disappear from the face of the earth and burn in hell fire for eternity. I have always thought that everyone should have the opportunity to succeed, and be given the benefit of the doubt. Not this time.
Too many times. Hate. Hate. Hate.

I feel so helpless though. When I demanded my carseat that I BOUGHT today, he just looked impishly at me and said no repeatedly. I HATE HIM. He is such a low being that I would stomp on him if possible and squish the guts out and then wipe my shoe on the grass and move on. I would spray him with insecticide until his legs stopped moving like I do crickets or roaches that I see but can’t stand to squash because of how they pop. I would love to put him in a rocket to outer space and then take out the temp fuel and the navigations and let him starve alone in space. I would tie him up and drip water on his forehead until he became insane like I’ve heard chinese do for torture. I would strand him in the desert with no shoes. I would push him into a lion den in a zoo before meal time. I would put him on a plane going across an ocean but poke a hole in the gas tank. I would make him eat burned spaghetti for the rest of his miserable life. I would slash his tires just for fun, and then when he bought more, I would slash those. Then I would key his big boy truck and bash the headlights out with a baseball bat because he frickin loves baseball and there’s a touch of irony there. I would spray paint the words “SACK OF SHIT” on his truck in neon just for the hell of it. I’m planning on changing the ringtone on my phone to say “Dead beat douchebag calling” or something along those lines. (this is very therapeutic) I would sabotage his job by taking merchandise and planting it in his truck. I would break all of his fishing rods. I would throw his laundry in the washer and then dump an entire gallon of bleach in with it. I would then wait until a new wardrobe was purchased and wash those in boiling water to shrink them. I would breed moths just to put in his closet to eat his 3^rd wardrobe. I would scratch his new boots that he bought while not sending a child support check. I would take his social security number and bank account numbers and take all his money. I would  cut a hole in his bass boat with an ax. I would place rotten food and fish under the seat of his truck to spoil. I would dump milk in his carpet to rot and then smell after the food was removed. I would take his sparkplugs and siphon his gas. I would put a potato in his gaspipe and hope that it damaged something. I would pour dr. pepper in his gas tank. I could pour gas in his gas tank since its diesel. Would they ever know? I would door ding his doors repeatedly. I would poison his food with salmanilla. I would then do it again with e.coli. I would hope he gets mrsa if hospitalized. I would pay employees to spit in his food at restaurants. I would cut tiny holes in all of his straws. I would kill him if I could get away with it. I would hire someone to kill him if it was cheaper. I would hire someone to plant drugs and then call the police anonamously on him just to get him arrested. People tell me that if he lost his job that I wouldn’t get any money from him. But that seems about the same as it is now. I tried to slap him and he blocked it. Damn my slowness. I have dreams of connecting in a nice slap or a nice kick to the junk. But in my dreams it rarely connects completely either. Imagine that.

Where the real women are.

I have a confession. I enjoy reading personals on craigslist. Not the sick and demented ones. The silly missed connections and the long term relationship call outs. I was reading one tonight that was titled “Where are all the real women?”

I wanted to reply to this post because I know exactly where they are. They are fighting to survive. They are working their asses off in a world that expects them to do it all. Equal rights movements did their job. Overtime. Now that there is equal opportunity, the tables have turned. Women are more likely to go to college and graduate than men. Women are therfore taking over more white collar jobs than men, and most men don’t like their women to make more than them. There are more women in politics, government, and the armed forces. Women have taken on careers. Women have goals.

In addition to “Man” work, women are also expected to be sensitive, soft, caring, motherly. They are expected to have children and care for them plus provide for them. Where are the men in all this you ask?

In my experience they are stepping aside. They are kicking back with a beer and xbox while their wives and girlfriends run themselves ragged. Talking their women into signing on loans for their big boy toys. Yes, many of them work, but many of them have a sense of entitlement as well. They are not willing to take up the extra slack left by a society where one parent working is not enough to build a family. They are still caught up in tradition. Though they expect their women to work and bring in income, they are not willing to help around the house to make her life easier. Chivalry is not necessary, and neither are the little things.

In my dad’s day, men wouldn’t be caught dead on medicaid or food stamps if able bodied. You’d be shocked at how many medicaid cards are handed over by men in their 20’s and 30’s with 5 names listed on the paper. Really? you ask yourself. You really can’t get a job with insurance benefits and you’re fine with living off the government instead of making your own way like your dad did. Where is your pride?

That’s where all the real women are. Stressed out, gaining weight, taking anti-depressants, chasing a kid, building a career, because the men have let them down. Yes ladies, we have to take some responsibility for our former generations and their liberating movements. And no, I’m not saying the freedoms those strong women marched for aren’t something to be proud of. But I am saying that men need to step it up, work for a real lady because most of us are working just as hard as the men on and off the clock.

I often say, just cause I’m clocking out doesn’t mean I’m done for the day. I’m just leaving one job to go to my real job. Being a mom.

This is gonna be a good life

There’s a pop song on the radio right now with a hook that repeats this is gonna be a good life, this is gonna be a good life… Its not that I like the song, but its in my head on repeat. I hope it has some truth for me.

I guess I never thought about it before…where I’d be at 22. I bet I never pictured this. Living in the spare room of my sister and brother in law’s house. Part time worker part time student, single mom of a toddler.

It isn’t a bad life. I’ve definitely had enough”fun” already. I’m ready to settle down so to speak. I have a feeling that things are looking up, and hopefully that’s not the antidepressant talking. You know, no one told me that when you’re divorced you’re still tied to that person. Maybe it’s different if there’s no kids, but geez it still feels like such a ball and chain to pass her off Monday and Thursday nights and every other Sunday. I half-wish he would have signed over his rights to her. That would have been awesome. But he won’t and he is such a p.o.s. that he needs to pay up some for all he put us through. Can I get a hell yeah?

I’m sure part of it had to be me. But I can’t see it. I feel that I put in 100% for a very long time. I just got no effort. Its like he breezed down the aisle thinking it was all a frickin cake walk with country music in the background accompanying every move in a romance movie. Get Real. That is Hollywood Trash. Love is work. Hard, dirty, long work. And I accepted that and had my boots and leather gloves on as soon as I slipped on the ring. What kind of a wierd relationship is that where the girl is the realist and the guy is off in lala land? He’s still out there sitting on his imaginary throne with all of his servants handing him whatever he desires.

I just keep asking myself, How did you miss all this? What did you see then that overshadowed all this? There had to be roadblocking LED Neon signs saying WRONG WAY DO NOT ENTER DANGER DANGER will robinson. I’ll probably always ask that. But I will move on. I will survive. I will thrive. This is gonna be a good life.

Its finally over!!

The divorce was finalized Junes 6th. I am pretty sure that it is a day in June I will remember much more than the wedding date of the 27th. So far no regrets. Since I have a nerdy side, I decided to do a few calculations about my loser now ex husband and his time spent with our child. Although a standard order would have mandated approximately 40 hours of visitation a month, he agreed to my proposed schedule of 28 hours a month which actually breaks down to 4 or 10 hours a week depending on if it is his weekend. Not a blink people.

And here comes the kicker. In my lawyers office as we are going over the final decree, at the very end when I think its about to be over, he brings up income tax returns and who gets to claim the child. He says that he’s heard that it alternates each year who gets to claim her and therefore get a few extra hundred on the return. My lawyer replies that genenerally the parent who keeps the child and who the child is dependent upon claims the child as, who knew, a dependent on the tax form. The argument begins to escalate slightly and my lawyer turns to his computer and says hey you can talk about it and I’ll write down whatever you decide but I have to put something.

So I begin to shake my head and I put on my big girl panties and metaphorically stomp my Payless heels up onto my soap box and quietly rant about how he is greedy and self centered that this is his only question throughout the entire thing. That I have been arguing what is best for that precious little girl, and all he has to say is who gets the tax return. I gave in. I had to. Otherwise it would have been dragged out into months more of this bull poopie. I said fine, if it will get this overwith. Fine. But I want you to know that this is ridiculous and it blows my mind.

My lawyer started to write it down…every other year. I say, “Will you go ahead and specify even and odd years so that I don’t have to deal with this again?” Lawyer says sure. And the douche jumps in and says “Nevermind, just do it her way. Just do what she wants.”

I hadn’t seen my lawyer move his pen that fast since the beginning. The sentence was barely finished before the pen was marking it off the yellow legal pad.

The freaking tax return. Really?

How did I miss all this about him? What does that say about my then 19 year old psyche that I needed that so badly that I went for that package?

Its like going into a bakery with a 20 dollar bill and you see all the beautifully decorated muffins and cupcakes in the display case, but you go for the sell out day old bread rack instead, grab the first sagging saran wrapped bread ball and put the 20 down on the counter with a “keep the change” as you walk out the door with it. It just doesn’t make any sense but it happened.

They say don’t look back. The mysterious they.
I say that I have to reconcile with the past and be thankful. I am no longer that person grabbing the day old bread.

I will no longer let myself be taken for granted.
I am worth it.
I am good enough.
I can do whatever I put my mind to.

Although I have to tell myself this basically every day, I’m not wallowing in self doubt and depression. I took mys toddler to the store a couple days ago and actually enjoyed it. I was shocked.

I can enjoy this? I can actually have fun doing a mundane task like grocery shopping? With my toddler. What a revelation. I love spending time with her (most of the time of course) but I do. There is hope. I didn’t really see that until it was final.

There is hope.

The Weather Around Here

Well, I’m getting a divorce. Sigh. I know its for the best. that it can be anyway. You just never think of yourself as one of “those people” until hind sight. I should have, would have, could have picked a better partner, but instability and ignorance lead to bad decisions.
Hopefully I won’t say that looking back to this decision eventually. My little baby is 2 and I can’t help but be a little ashamed that she was born on Medicaid. Working in a healthcare job, I see a range of people and I have lost faith in innate decency of human beings. Medicaid especially. I had a woman asking if Medicaid covered the Morning After pill while pushing her infant in a carrier with her neatly polished nails and her Gucci purse, barely putting down her iphone to ask…I just want to slap someone. I didn’t want my baby to have anything to do with that type of stereotype. Or myself either in fact, but as circumstances would allow and as husband pressure would stress, I went through the steps and the crowded office and it was free. I suppose it was worth it. Thank you for giving my baby good health care, good taxpayers. I’m paying taxes and helping bring other babies into the world, and buying your hydrocodone and antibiotics that warrented a free emergency room trip. If I could pay that money back I definitely would.
Am I ranting? I suppose I am. Its getting late, and another jolly sunday at work to look forward to while my darling toddler gets bundled around to aunts and grandparents and sunday school.
But maybe he’ll send in the divorce paperwork, and maybe it will be a quick trip into the judge, and maybe I’ll finally see some money out of the selfish s.o.b. for bringing his offspring into this ugly selfish world. And maybe I can get a little less stressed out from bills and school and my precious child and work and find a little more joy.

Pregnancy

What can I say, I can barely remember it…it went by so fast, I got huge. I wish now that I could rewind and experience it all to savor those precious moments of it. This was the time that I started to realize that my relationship with my new husband was not the fairytale I thought it would be. My strongest memory from late pregnancy was standing outside of his newly purchased (with me as the co-signer) 2500 Dodge Ram pickup asking, then telling, then yelling at him to get out and come around to my side to help me in because my leg didn’t go up that far anymore and it hurt to pull myself up. Today I would call him an insensitive ass, but I still had some rose glasses on then. I remember giving him back massages in my planetarian state when my back was killing me. At the time we were living in an efficiency apartment (one room) in a horrible neighborhood because of the cheap rent while he made truck payments equal to the rent instead of driving the cars we had paid off and living somewhere safer. I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor because he didn’t want to spend the money on a box spring for the frame. It was disgusting. I was stressed out all the time. He went fishing in a club every other weekend at least leaving me worrying about becoming a mom in the middle of a gun shot neighborhood….and I have no idea why they call me bitter…ha. By the time the baby got here, everything was a blur. I got no sleep at all because if she started crying 6 times a night and I didn’t get up, he would nudge me awake to go to her. I was breast-feeding, yes but he could have gotten up to be supportive or changed a diaper every once in a while…I eventually quit asking about his day…about his fishing tournaments…by Christmas he bought a boat (with me signing on it to avoid a fight) and had still never combined a bank account to help pay for things. I was back to having headaches, I started eating. I lost most of the weight and gained all of it back plus in the next year. I’m still working on losing it. I’m still extremely stressed out all of the time. Its still completely my responsibility to provide for my baby girl. I still work as much as I can. I’m going back to school at a community college. I’m still married because I don’t have the money to leave him. But I can’t even look at him without disgust and anger and hatred. I’ve been so dissappointed for so long, I’m at the edge boys and girls. Barely hanging on. I usually sleep in my daughter’s room because sleeping in the same bed with him made it too tempting to get up and go to the kitchen, grab the largest frying pan and beat him with it.

The Beginning

Some might call me stupid, others might dare to call me brave. Eventually I’ll look back and wonder how the hell I did it (hopefully). My struggle from the outside might seem like just another case of drama and hardship, who hasn’t had that in thier lives? But as they say, this is my story, so here it goes. I grew up in the Bible Belt of America, and like many other generations before me, I was raised in a church, with moral beliefs drilled into me. When asking my parents serious life issues, the response consistently was a quote from the Good Book. While I don’t argue with this approach, some children could be benefitted with a little more concrete evidence. I was one of those children. Strong willed, strong headed, and make my own way or be damned, I chose the hard road. I don’t know for sure when lying to my parents became a habit, but by age 17, I had a boyfriend who plastered on the pressure with pointed humor and inuendoes. Eventually, like most teen girls, I gave in and lost my virginity after school while I was “studying at the coffee shop,” according to the story my parents got. Though I faked enjoying the rebellion, the not-so-great sex, and the “independence,” it really messed with my teenage emotions and my imbalanced depression. By the time I graduated high school in the top percentage of my class, I had headaches regularly and dramatic mood swings. I moved to a different city the week after graduation to spend the summer before college driving to my hometown to visit my boyfriend on weekends and trying to find a job that didn’t require weekends (his idea not mine.) My savings from my high school job were soon deplenished, college started, dorm life sucked, I didn’t have any friends or a Major. By November I couldn’t take being my boyfriend’s (who ended up at the same college) booty call, and doing the walk of shame in his dorm since nothing was private to him. I finally had the courage to end it. I just couldn’t seem to stand on my own. By Christmas I had had a fling with one of my older sister’s friends and caused a scandal among that circle. In January, I found myself sleeping a lot, skipping class, and partying at night. I hated it, I had no direction. I was thinking about trying drugs, and still didn’t have a major. And then I met him. At the time, he was the most wonderful, charming, real guy. I was invited with a guy friend to attend a party at his house…lots of cheap beer and yaeger shots. He was attentive and I fell for it. It seemed like from then on that I was sleeping over all the time. My room-mate was sickly and motherly and I hated it. College was supposed to be about freedom right? Anyway, It was less than 2 weeks after Super Bowl Sunday that we started having sex. I couldn’t stand the thought of staying in Lubbock when he annouced that he was moving. I just knew that the path I would head down was full of more depression, migraines, and probably the start of drug use. So instead I got pregnant. I’m a smart girl, I know how things work, I knew what would happen. I just didn’t think it through at 19. I told my parents over Spring Break. I made my first C in classes. I started work full time and got married in June. I think that was my biggest mistake. I partially blame my parents for not being aware of my depression problem and getting me some medication in middle and high school…maybe that would have helped. Maybe not. I think it could have stopped a lot of the self mutillation that I went through as a part of 8th and 9th grades. I had 1 or 2 recurrances of “cutting” through the winter months of that first year in college, along with my experimentation with ciggarettes. But for the pregnancy I fully take responsibility. I don’t know why I expected marriage to be easy. I guess I just expected that having a baby at 19 would be the hardest part.