My tech told me that she was “faddaged" last night.
Me: You’re what?
Me: “Faddaged?” What does that even mean? Spell it.
Me: Stop. Are you trying to say fatigued?
Tech: No, “faddaged.” It’s another word for tired.
Me: Oh dear child. It’s pronounced fatigued.
Tech: Fatigued? Who comes up with this pronunciation stuff? It looks like “faddaged.”
I thought we had turned the corner when she finally stopped saying: “I need the dextro-am-heff-a-deen.” Looks like we are back at square one.
But I’ll take her goofy pronunciations all day. She lost all of her fingers and most of her hand in a horrible car accident a few years ago, yet has maintained the best outlook on life with her positive attitude and humor. She never fails to give me a good belly laugh just when I need it most.
Me: I don’t know who keeps putting bottles in the wrong place, but I’m about to dust everything for fingerprints to find out who’s doing it.
Tech: Thank God I don't have any fingers.
Her humor is always welcomed. It will instantly make you forget about the mean old lady yelling at you because she’s out of her “peanut butter balls” and is going to have a seizure. What… you didn’t know peanut butter balls prevented seizures?? Neither did I. Until she gave me her prescription number and up came a refill for phenobarbital.
I’m just going to file this one in the “what the hell” category and move on. No need to discuss.
Patient: A pharmacy in Indiana wouldn’t fill my prescriptions because they said they don’t take Kentucky Medicaid.
Me: Yes, that is correct. Medicaid is usually state specific.
Patient: I don’t understand.
Me: If you have medicaid issued from the state of Kentucky, then you can only use your medicaid benefits in Kentucky.
Patient: What??! What happens when I go on vacation to Hawaii and happen to get sick? Am I just supposed to die?
God was looking out for me. He didn’t want me to go blogless this month. And he wasn’t playing around… he made sure I experienced enough blog material this past weekend to make up for a months worth of lost notes. Thankfully all of these situations occurred as phone calls because I don’t think I could have kept my facial expressions in check for some of these stories if they happened in person. But after the phone call that led to the story below, I should have just dropped the
Me: This is the pharmacist. How may I help you?
Man: Hi. I have a situation and need your advice.
Man: My daughter shaved “down there” last night at a friend’s house. Now she is complaining that it is burning and itching.
Man: She said she even shaved in the right direction.
Me: (more silence)
Man: (longer silence)
Me: Okaaaay. Did she shave the whole area, or just the outer bikini line?
Man to daughter in background: Did you shave the whole thing?
Man: She says she shaved everything.
Me: Ummm. How old is your daughter? (Completely irrelevant, but I had to ask)
Me: (silence as I digested the situation, then proceeded to recommend a brand of anti-itch hydrocortisone cream that is found in the feminine aisle)
There were a few thoughts that immediately came to mind after I hung up the phone:
***First thought: I would rather walk around with a flame coming out of my vagina than tell my dad that I have razor burn as a result of a Brazilian shave that I did at my friend’s house. I can’t even fathom having that conversation at the age of 14. I got in deep trouble for calling a boy on the phone when I was 14, so telling my dad that I shaved my lady parts bare at that age would have led to solitary confinement until I was 18. I then would be under a work-release program until I was 40. At 40, he might allow me to start dating, but of course it would be chaperoned. I think you get my point: that shit would never be told to my father; not at 14; not at 34; not at 54. Never. Ever. Never.
**Second thought: I was an early bloomer. I was shaving my armpits at the age of 10 (and my mom reminds me that it was a daily fight because I hated doing it). But I didn’t know shaving anything other than my pits and legs was an option (except when I experimentally shaved my mustache in the 8th grade… that sure as hell never happened again after it grew back even thicker). I was shocked to hear this girl at 14 years old was doing things that I never even considered until a decade later. But, I was even more upset after hearing this story that I officially felt old. I turned into that old person who says: “I can’t believe the things that kids do these days.”
Now I will transition to something much more serious and dear to my heart, something that I can't not mention. Today was my birthday (thank you, thank you), but my birthdays post-2004 are always bittersweet. I am grateful for all the love that was sent my way today (Facebook makes you feel like a rockstar on your birthday!). But I am even more grateful for those we honored today on Memorial Day... the brave soldiers who have made the ultimate sacrifice.
Jeff, You are missed dearly, but your dedication and perseverance in a time of personal suffering is beyond admirable, and is often what gets me through difficult times. You left me with a lifetime of memories that I will forever hold close to my heart. I have yet to forgive you for cheating during our lunge challenge, but how could I be mad at you with that smile of yours? Lt. Sandifur and I are doing well. We still continue to see each other, but not as much as we used to. Please know the amount of gratitude you received from our country today was overwhelming. Everyone says "thank you," but I also need to say, "I love you." Oh, and "Go Big Blue!" Maybe Go Big Blue first, then I love you second? Nah. Well... maybe? I'll have to think about it... this is a hard one :) Wish you were here next year as we watch the boys claim #9, but I know you, Kevin, and DJ are already working on stadium seating and will have front row seats from heaven. Thank you, Jeff. Today we all say thank you. We are the land of the free because of you.