Another downside to owning my particular convertible…the top leaks. Not just a tiny little drip; if it’s raining hard, it leaks hard. Right now my entire passenger side front seat is soaked, and my left arm (well, the sweatshirt on it) is soaked. Twenty minutes ago it was dripping wet—very uncomfortable—and my left leg was just about as wet.
After so many really nice days I don’t mind the rain…I just mind that I was out running errands and got caught in it (at least the top was up), and I mind that it was coming down so hard.
I’m all itchy now.
:/
Tuesday
Sunday
The downside to owning a convertible on a weekend with perfect weather: sunburn. Made worse by sitting outside with the neighbors for most of the afternoon, and forgetting the sunscreen. Not that I’m really complaining…and I don’t even mind the convertible-hair. Just an FYI—if you get in a convertible with wet hair, you’re going to have one funky hairdo within 15 minutes. Minor problem.
Thursday
Ohhhhhhh…Talk about a perfect day, weather-wise. 70 degrees, very slight breeze, lots of sunshine. You can bet I had that car out, the top down, making up places I “needed” to go. The post office (just checking the box, and soooo glad I didn’t have to mail anything—that line of people sending taxes in at the last minute was long). Car wash. Jiffy Lube (well, I really did need to have the oil changed, but didn’t have to do it today.) Tomorrow promises to be just as nice—heck, it sounds like it’ll be this nice (and warmer) through the weekend.
To top off a nice day—the Spouse Thingy and I were headed for the grocery store and the price of gas had dropped 20 cents from when we had driven past just an hour earlier. So yep, I stopped and gassed up.
I think winter is officially over here…now we just need to get into May, when we can safely plant flowers. I miss my overflowing petunias and impatiens. Though, inexplicably, I have tulips growing in the front flower bed. They weren’t there last year, and I sure didn’t put any bulbs down last fall.
To top off a nice day—the Spouse Thingy and I were headed for the grocery store and the price of gas had dropped 20 cents from when we had driven past just an hour earlier. So yep, I stopped and gassed up.
I think winter is officially over here…now we just need to get into May, when we can safely plant flowers. I miss my overflowing petunias and impatiens. Though, inexplicably, I have tulips growing in the front flower bed. They weren’t there last year, and I sure didn’t put any bulbs down last fall.
Tuesday
Holy guacamole, what the hell is it with gas prices? I know they’re up around the country, but in this area, they fluctuate as much as 25 cents from day to day, and the formerly-predictable price rise/lowering is no longer so predictable. It used to be that the prices went up on Thursday and came down late Monday or Tuesday, but lately… sheesh. I should have gassed up yesterday, when the price was $1.65, but I figured I’d do it today. Cripes. It shot up to $1.90 at the gas station near us, and is over $2.00 elsewhere (yeah, I know some of you are thinking “Well Boo Hoo, we’ve been over $2.00 for months.”) I’d just like to have some idea of how much a tank is going to cost me from day to day. This guessing and trying to figure out if I buy today or tomorrow is getting old. I’ve never lived someplace where it fluctuates the way it does here.
The good thing is that we got the convertible tuned up in February, which did wonders for my gas mileage—I’m getting mileage almost as good as the brand new Mazda. Almost.
The bad thing is that it’s still not warm enough to routinely drive around with the top down, and the last couple of days it’s been too wet to take it out at all. The roof leaks. Yep, my shiny little toy leaks when it rains, and that pisses me off to no end.
Ok, that’s a little strong. It annoys me. Especially when I’m driving and my left leg is getting wet.
We’re still vacillating over whether or not to take the car with us to CA. There’s a chance the military would move it as part of our household goods. If they won’t, we could pay for auto transport, though that would be a little pricey. I suppose it’ll all come down to the condition of the car; if it turns out they won’t move it for us, we’ll take it to a mechanic this summer and find out if it’s even worth keeping. I know it needs a few things, like new front struts, and eventually new brakes and new tires, but it may also need new engine mounts, and I suspect that could be expensive.
I suppose if we don’t keep it, I could just take the Boy’s car when we get there.
Yep, that’ll go over well. ;)
The good thing is that we got the convertible tuned up in February, which did wonders for my gas mileage—I’m getting mileage almost as good as the brand new Mazda. Almost.
The bad thing is that it’s still not warm enough to routinely drive around with the top down, and the last couple of days it’s been too wet to take it out at all. The roof leaks. Yep, my shiny little toy leaks when it rains, and that pisses me off to no end.
Ok, that’s a little strong. It annoys me. Especially when I’m driving and my left leg is getting wet.
We’re still vacillating over whether or not to take the car with us to CA. There’s a chance the military would move it as part of our household goods. If they won’t, we could pay for auto transport, though that would be a little pricey. I suppose it’ll all come down to the condition of the car; if it turns out they won’t move it for us, we’ll take it to a mechanic this summer and find out if it’s even worth keeping. I know it needs a few things, like new front struts, and eventually new brakes and new tires, but it may also need new engine mounts, and I suspect that could be expensive.
I suppose if we don’t keep it, I could just take the Boy’s car when we get there.
Yep, that’ll go over well. ;)
Monday
One of the big things I’m going to miss when we move is the neighborhood—lots of nice, friendly, fun people, and it’s not the ‘wave hi and never learn each other’s names’ kind of nice. People actually talk to each other. I take some comfort in knowing that as we leave, so will others, so if we stayed, it wouldn’t be the same neighborhood anyway.
Our next door neighbors had an Easter brunch yesterday (the neighbors with the little boy that the cat actually seems interested in), and it was a really nice way to spend Easter. On our own, the Spouse Thingy and I would probably have grumped around the house, possibly would have gone to see a movie, but it wouldn’t have been as much fun.
We had a potluck brunch—tons of really good food—and the kids had an Easter egg hunt outdoors. Keep in mind, all but one of these kids was under 3 years old, and the eggs were right there in plain sight, but it was still funny to watch. One little boy didn’t want to pick up any blue eggs. The oldest could have scrambled to get them all, but he didn’t. He “found” his fair share and was happy with that. Both little girls upended their baskets more than once, spilling candy and money-filled plastic eggs back onto the lawn. And something that really struck me—the kids seemed more than happy to share their candy. Little kids. Kids who for the most part are too young to grasp the concept of sharing as a not-so-bad thing (granted, they didn’t want to share the basketball, but that’s different. Right?)
The adults played games—loudly. We sat around a table play “The Pit” (a stock market sort of card game) yelling “one, one, one?…Three, three, three?” (know the scenes in Finding Nemo where the baby pelicans are hollering Mine! Mine! Mine!? That’s what it sounds like) and in the midst of all this yelling we’re also hollering at the kids to stop screaming at each other. Yep, contradiction on action.
BTW…I suck at games. This has become quite evident.
It was a lot of fun. And I wasn’t even drunk :)
Our next door neighbors had an Easter brunch yesterday (the neighbors with the little boy that the cat actually seems interested in), and it was a really nice way to spend Easter. On our own, the Spouse Thingy and I would probably have grumped around the house, possibly would have gone to see a movie, but it wouldn’t have been as much fun.
We had a potluck brunch—tons of really good food—and the kids had an Easter egg hunt outdoors. Keep in mind, all but one of these kids was under 3 years old, and the eggs were right there in plain sight, but it was still funny to watch. One little boy didn’t want to pick up any blue eggs. The oldest could have scrambled to get them all, but he didn’t. He “found” his fair share and was happy with that. Both little girls upended their baskets more than once, spilling candy and money-filled plastic eggs back onto the lawn. And something that really struck me—the kids seemed more than happy to share their candy. Little kids. Kids who for the most part are too young to grasp the concept of sharing as a not-so-bad thing (granted, they didn’t want to share the basketball, but that’s different. Right?)
The adults played games—loudly. We sat around a table play “The Pit” (a stock market sort of card game) yelling “one, one, one?…Three, three, three?” (know the scenes in Finding Nemo where the baby pelicans are hollering Mine! Mine! Mine!? That’s what it sounds like) and in the midst of all this yelling we’re also hollering at the kids to stop screaming at each other. Yep, contradiction on action.
BTW…I suck at games. This has become quite evident.
It was a lot of fun. And I wasn’t even drunk :)
Friday
Once again, I can no longer email people on AOL. Neither can the Spouse Thingy. And I'm pretty sure that no one with our ISP can email people on AOL, either. We can get mail from people on AOL, we just can't reply. Or send original email. Every time we try we get this "Message Delayed" email the next day, and after 3 days, a "Delivery Failure." The only thing we can figure is that someone used KAS Cable to mass-spam AOL, so we're all going to suffer for it.
Y'all on AOL...you need a new ISP. A real ISP. Or at least non-AOL email addresses.
Y'all on AOL...you need a new ISP. A real ISP. Or at least non-AOL email addresses.
Thursday
I don’t know if you could call me a particularly religious person. I don’t go to church anymore—probably out of abject laziness, though I do have reason for no longer attending the church of which I am a former member—but I hold tight to certain beliefs. I don’t shove them in peoples’ faces, and because my religious education is sorely lacking, I’m not even all that comfortable with a welcomed discussion about religion. But I do respect others’ beliefs, and I’ll listen. I might learn a thing or two, if not about their beliefs, then about myself.
Or, I might learn something about someone else that I really didn’t want to know. Take this morning, for instance. I learned a thing or two about someone I know online. Who’d have thought the Internet could be so educational?
Long and short of it…I don’t find stories of missionary bashing funny. No, I don’t think it’s funny that you turned the hose on them. No, I don’t find humor in you sic’ing your dog one them. I’m not even going to crack a smile over the thought that you flashed a bare boob at them.
The thing is, as annoying as people find the missionaries (and most of them are Mormon, so I’ll look at it as Mormon missionaries), they’re just kids. They’re 19-21 years old (if they’re male, 21-22 if they’re female), out in the world for the first time, and they have—what to them—is an incredible gift. And it’s free. They don’t know you from a hole in the wall, but what they want for you is not wrought out of something evil; and there’s the thing—they don’t want something from you, they want something for you.
And all you have to do is ask, respectfully, that they not come back. They’ll honor that. And yes, eventually another couple of missionaries will be there, but not the same kids. Their replacements might not get the word, or there might be an entirely new set of people in charge of them by that point. Even so…does it really make someone feel better, or superior, to turn the hose on a couple of kids? Does it make them a better person?
No…I really think it just makes them look small.
Or, I might learn something about someone else that I really didn’t want to know. Take this morning, for instance. I learned a thing or two about someone I know online. Who’d have thought the Internet could be so educational?
Long and short of it…I don’t find stories of missionary bashing funny. No, I don’t think it’s funny that you turned the hose on them. No, I don’t find humor in you sic’ing your dog one them. I’m not even going to crack a smile over the thought that you flashed a bare boob at them.
The thing is, as annoying as people find the missionaries (and most of them are Mormon, so I’ll look at it as Mormon missionaries), they’re just kids. They’re 19-21 years old (if they’re male, 21-22 if they’re female), out in the world for the first time, and they have—what to them—is an incredible gift. And it’s free. They don’t know you from a hole in the wall, but what they want for you is not wrought out of something evil; and there’s the thing—they don’t want something from you, they want something for you.
And all you have to do is ask, respectfully, that they not come back. They’ll honor that. And yes, eventually another couple of missionaries will be there, but not the same kids. Their replacements might not get the word, or there might be an entirely new set of people in charge of them by that point. Even so…does it really make someone feel better, or superior, to turn the hose on a couple of kids? Does it make them a better person?
No…I really think it just makes them look small.
Tuesday
Author, Author
Sweetness. Letters Home is a book written by a friend o’mine, Mark Falzini. The guy has a brilliant mind, an archivist with an expertise on Charles Lindberg, and has a rich family history—the book is about his mother and her family in Nazi Occupied Germany. I just ordered a copy—I can’t wait to get my hands on it!
Sweetness. Letters Home is a book written by a friend o’mine, Mark Falzini. The guy has a brilliant mind, an archivist with an expertise on Charles Lindberg, and has a rich family history—the book is about his mother and her family in Nazi Occupied Germany. I just ordered a copy—I can’t wait to get my hands on it!
Friday
Wednesday
First The Cat...
ISED8U, the Spouse Thingy's new blog, is now online. It's supposed to relate anesthesia tales, but I suspect it's really for retaliation against the cat and myself. Peek often for his rebuttals to the the thingsi day about him ;)
ISED8U, the Spouse Thingy's new blog, is now online. It's supposed to relate anesthesia tales, but I suspect it's really for retaliation against the cat and myself. Peek often for his rebuttals to the the thingsi day about him ;)
Sunday
Saturday
God Shoot The Queen
A few weeks back (could have been a few months or even a year) I read a blurb in the paper about a study that linked music lyrics getting stuck in one’s head with an increased risk of stroke. And now I’m pretty sure I know why.
It’s the body’s defense mechanism; it keeps you from going stark raving insane.
My moment of enlightenment? After the 5th night in a row of falling to sleep with Freddy Mercury belting out “I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike…I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like” over and over and over…
Someone make it stop!
A few weeks back (could have been a few months or even a year) I read a blurb in the paper about a study that linked music lyrics getting stuck in one’s head with an increased risk of stroke. And now I’m pretty sure I know why.
It’s the body’s defense mechanism; it keeps you from going stark raving insane.
My moment of enlightenment? After the 5th night in a row of falling to sleep with Freddy Mercury belting out “I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike…I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like” over and over and over…
Someone make it stop!
Wednesday
Y oh Y
Since we’re paying for the Y membership, we decided to actually use it, more than the couple times a week I go dunk my head under water. The Y has tons of classes available, everything from aerobics to karate to Yoga.
So what did we decide to do?
We decided to go dunk our heads under water… All right, we actually kept our heads above water, but we were still in the pool. The pool in which the water is, IMNSHO, a little too cold. I get all goose-bumpy in the water, and I don’t enjoy that in the least.
Two nights a week there’s a water aerobics class. We went on Monday night, the Spouse Thingy with his spiffy new glasses-free-face, and me with my spiffy new contacts—so hey, we could actually see where we were, all the crud floating in the water, and the people with whom we shared the pool. The lap lanes were all taken, mostly by some swim team, but the shallow end was reserved just for us.
Us and the six or seven older women who also showed up for the class. Well, and the skinny little thing who was leading the class. She seemed very nice, but I have to hate her on principle. No one should be that trim and fit. Kind of like Shania Twain…she has a nice voice, but I’m obligated to hate anyone who can give birth and still fit into those tiny little leather pants.
Anyway.
The skinny little thing started us out by “jogging” around the shallow end of the pool. Jogging evidently mean “meandering around for five minutes” until the real work begins. It was a line of old women, me, and the Spouse Thingy going in circles, with the Spouse Thingy and me lapping them on a regular basis.
The class itself was all right—a little less than an hour of jumping up and down, kicking, waving our arms manically, and generally just moving around in the water. By the time we were done, I didn’t feel like I’d done much. It definitely felt like less of a workout than I normally get just swimming laps for an hour.
Then I got up yesterday morning, and my calves screamed at me “what the hell did you do to us?!?!” And as the day wore on, they screamed louder and louder, and today when I got up they both simply seethed “we’re not cooperating today…you’ll have to walk down the stairs sideways, because we’re not about to so much as flex for you.”
Yep, I didn’t work out very hard, but evidently my calves did.
There’s another class tonight, and we’re going back. Not because it’s a great workout. Nope. We’re going back because I get a perverse pleasure out of lapping all the little old ladies.
Whatever works, right?
Since we’re paying for the Y membership, we decided to actually use it, more than the couple times a week I go dunk my head under water. The Y has tons of classes available, everything from aerobics to karate to Yoga.
So what did we decide to do?
We decided to go dunk our heads under water… All right, we actually kept our heads above water, but we were still in the pool. The pool in which the water is, IMNSHO, a little too cold. I get all goose-bumpy in the water, and I don’t enjoy that in the least.
Two nights a week there’s a water aerobics class. We went on Monday night, the Spouse Thingy with his spiffy new glasses-free-face, and me with my spiffy new contacts—so hey, we could actually see where we were, all the crud floating in the water, and the people with whom we shared the pool. The lap lanes were all taken, mostly by some swim team, but the shallow end was reserved just for us.
Us and the six or seven older women who also showed up for the class. Well, and the skinny little thing who was leading the class. She seemed very nice, but I have to hate her on principle. No one should be that trim and fit. Kind of like Shania Twain…she has a nice voice, but I’m obligated to hate anyone who can give birth and still fit into those tiny little leather pants.
Anyway.
The skinny little thing started us out by “jogging” around the shallow end of the pool. Jogging evidently mean “meandering around for five minutes” until the real work begins. It was a line of old women, me, and the Spouse Thingy going in circles, with the Spouse Thingy and me lapping them on a regular basis.
The class itself was all right—a little less than an hour of jumping up and down, kicking, waving our arms manically, and generally just moving around in the water. By the time we were done, I didn’t feel like I’d done much. It definitely felt like less of a workout than I normally get just swimming laps for an hour.
Then I got up yesterday morning, and my calves screamed at me “what the hell did you do to us?!?!” And as the day wore on, they screamed louder and louder, and today when I got up they both simply seethed “we’re not cooperating today…you’ll have to walk down the stairs sideways, because we’re not about to so much as flex for you.”
Yep, I didn’t work out very hard, but evidently my calves did.
There’s another class tonight, and we’re going back. Not because it’s a great workout. Nope. We’re going back because I get a perverse pleasure out of lapping all the little old ladies.
Whatever works, right?
Monday
Thanks to some evil people, I am totally hooked on this online game, BeSpelled. I looked at it out of a sense of curiosity—why were all these people talking about playing this game? What could possibly be so interesting?
Holy crap. It’s an online version of the word game Boggle, for lack of anything better to compare it to. And I know a lot of words, it should be easy. Right? Right! The first time I played I hit almost 250,000 points, and figured, “Hey, this is cool.”
So, of course, I had to beat my high score. So I kept playing. And hit 396,000 points. And figured “I can do better than that.” So I kept playing.
Last night, probably around 8 p.m. I started a game, figuring I’d be done before 10 o’clock. But 10 p.m. came and I was still playing the same game, doing fairly well. Then came 11, then midnight…
I lost at around 12:45 a.m. Tripped up by a hot tile on the bottom line, an “A” surrounded by nothing but other vowels, and for some reason the game would not accept AOOUI as a legitimate word.
But I had a new high score! 648,150 points.
And I had a sore wrist from holding the mouse so long.
But I had a new high score!
Yeah, I know. I need a life…
Holy crap. It’s an online version of the word game Boggle, for lack of anything better to compare it to. And I know a lot of words, it should be easy. Right? Right! The first time I played I hit almost 250,000 points, and figured, “Hey, this is cool.”
So, of course, I had to beat my high score. So I kept playing. And hit 396,000 points. And figured “I can do better than that.” So I kept playing.
Last night, probably around 8 p.m. I started a game, figuring I’d be done before 10 o’clock. But 10 p.m. came and I was still playing the same game, doing fairly well. Then came 11, then midnight…
I lost at around 12:45 a.m. Tripped up by a hot tile on the bottom line, an “A” surrounded by nothing but other vowels, and for some reason the game would not accept AOOUI as a legitimate word.
But I had a new high score! 648,150 points.
And I had a sore wrist from holding the mouse so long.
But I had a new high score!
Yeah, I know. I need a life…
Friday
The Thing About Public Nekkidity…
Here’s the thing.
If I’m standing there in the locker room, naked, I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to hear about your bad knees, your saccharine-sweet grandkids, the weather, your job, your husband, or anything else. I do not want to be your new best friend.
I don’t want to be looked at, stared at, commented to or about. Leave me alone until I have my clothes on. Then you can tell me about the outreach program you’ve started for “those poor kids, even the white ones,” or how your grandson learned to belch the alphabet and how you think it’s so cute. Once I’m dressed, I’m perfectly receptive to idle chatter about how cold the pool water is, how scummy the hot tub is, how horrible getting snow this time of year is, or even complaints about the crick in your back.
But if I’m naked, dripping wet and trying to dry off and get my clothes on, I am not a social animal. I do not want to acknowledge that there is anyone in the locker room other than myself.
Thank you.
Here’s the thing.
If I’m standing there in the locker room, naked, I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to hear about your bad knees, your saccharine-sweet grandkids, the weather, your job, your husband, or anything else. I do not want to be your new best friend.
I don’t want to be looked at, stared at, commented to or about. Leave me alone until I have my clothes on. Then you can tell me about the outreach program you’ve started for “those poor kids, even the white ones,” or how your grandson learned to belch the alphabet and how you think it’s so cute. Once I’m dressed, I’m perfectly receptive to idle chatter about how cold the pool water is, how scummy the hot tub is, how horrible getting snow this time of year is, or even complaints about the crick in your back.
But if I’m naked, dripping wet and trying to dry off and get my clothes on, I am not a social animal. I do not want to acknowledge that there is anyone in the locker room other than myself.
Thank you.
Tuesday
My Opinion On Snow Rhymes with Sucks…
It’s the middle of march, for Pete’s sake. Spring should be springing. The birds should be dropping little birdy land mines on the cars. They neighborhood kids should be outside screaming their little heads off. We should not be getting 6 inches of this:
The only good thing about it, I suppose, is that the Spouse Thingy got a surprise day off. We did our major grocery shopping a couple of days ago, so there was no where we had to go, and someone cleared off the driveway for us before we convinced ourselves to venture outside.
Since it did snow, and it doesn’t seem to be going away, I declared myself the Snow Queen, and sat outside on my throne.
My tail is now frozen.
It’s the middle of march, for Pete’s sake. Spring should be springing. The birds should be dropping little birdy land mines on the cars. They neighborhood kids should be outside screaming their little heads off. We should not be getting 6 inches of this:
The only good thing about it, I suppose, is that the Spouse Thingy got a surprise day off. We did our major grocery shopping a couple of days ago, so there was no where we had to go, and someone cleared off the driveway for us before we convinced ourselves to venture outside.
Since it did snow, and it doesn’t seem to be going away, I declared myself the Snow Queen, and sat outside on my throne.
My tail is now frozen.
Sunday
And The Oscar For Best Blog Goes To…
One of the best blogs I've come across in a long time: The Squeaky Weasel Gets the Grease. I stumbled on it yesterday while surfing blogs, looking for something interesting to read...it's funny and smart, and worth taking the time to read back through the archives (which I started, and will probably chew up most of this evening doing.)
Just thought I'd share.. :)
One of the best blogs I've come across in a long time: The Squeaky Weasel Gets the Grease. I stumbled on it yesterday while surfing blogs, looking for something interesting to read...it's funny and smart, and worth taking the time to read back through the archives (which I started, and will probably chew up most of this evening doing.)
Just thought I'd share.. :)
Friday
When We’re Retirees…
…I swear, I am not going to act like half the military retirees I see. I promise. Really, really, really promise. I will act like the mature half, the ones who might block the commissary aisle, but have full control of their tempers and attitudes. Blocking the aisle is a ritual, a right earned by sucking it up through 20+ years of moving every 2-3 years, never knowing if the Active Duty Person in the family is going to go play in a land mine filled sandbox for 3 months, or 6 months, or a year. Or two. It’s expected.
But temper tantrums…I somehow don’t think those are a right of passage, not something one should do, no matter how many years of service were given to the country. Especially not when vented upon another Retiree doing volunteer service in the base refill pharmacy.
It was something to see, to be sure.
There, at the front of the line, was a guy about 75 years old, trying to get a refill on some scrip—like we all were. The elderly volunteer (and I say elderly not because he’s a Retiree, but because he looks about 90 years old) had to tell him the refill was flagged on the computer as invalid, and couldn’t be filled.
Holy crap, you’d have thought he’d said that they weren’t going to fill it just because they wanted to see his heart explode, right there in the pharmacy. This guy went off in a major way, yelling until his face was beet red, veins standing up in rapt attention and throbbing, and I’m sure little globs of spit were flying from his lips, though I couldn’t see well enough to be sure.
The poor volunteer had to keep his composure through the whole thing, all the while trying to explain that the computer showed this guy’s doc had written a new scrip just two days ago—which had been filled—so the refill on the old scrip was canceled. He couldn’t get the same med twice.
It kind of made me wonder if this wasn’t a scrip for a pain medication, or something potentially addicting, he wanted it so badly.
Still…the volunteers have no control over the scrips, and they can’t dispense anything without a valid prescription. Screaming at them doesn’t help; it just makes them feel bad, and makes the screamer look stupid.
Ten minutes later I was up at the old guy’s window to get a refill on my HGH; he went to the back to get it, and returned with a pharmacy supervisor, looking a little pale.
They were out of the HGH and needed to order it; it’d be in by Monday.
Well, that’s fine. I have 8 days worth left, and I’m used to them needing to order it. It’s a high cost prescription that they don’t keep much of on hand. I’m not the only one who needs it, so they run out. No big deal. So I said “No problem, I’ll come back Monday.”
Being reasonable shouldn’t bring such relief to someone’s face. Being reasonable shouldn’t be the reason why the supervisor also looks relived, and asks someone to wait while they make a call “just to be sure” there’s none available.
But, I suppose being reasonable is reason enough for a 90 year old Retiree to try to flirt with a 42 year old married woman. Within 5 minutes I knew he’d served 40 years (40!!!) and that I have “sparkly green eyes.” I didn’t tell him they were only sparkly because of the contacts.
So, I go back on Monday to get my scrip, where I will wait in a long line again, and where I will remind myself that it’s not going to kill me to wait for 20 minutes, and that most of the people manning the windows spend a lot of time in the military, and have seen horrors enough that they don’t need to see a fully grown person have a three-year-old’s type meltdown. And I’ll remind myself that if I ever volunteer at the pharmacy, that it’s not acceptable to reach over the counter and bitch slap the percentage of Retirees who seem to think that anyone lowering themselves to manning the refill pharmacy is open to such behavior.
Maybe I should take them a few Super Soakers. There’s nothing wrong with dousing a particularly rude person.
Is there?
…I swear, I am not going to act like half the military retirees I see. I promise. Really, really, really promise. I will act like the mature half, the ones who might block the commissary aisle, but have full control of their tempers and attitudes. Blocking the aisle is a ritual, a right earned by sucking it up through 20+ years of moving every 2-3 years, never knowing if the Active Duty Person in the family is going to go play in a land mine filled sandbox for 3 months, or 6 months, or a year. Or two. It’s expected.
But temper tantrums…I somehow don’t think those are a right of passage, not something one should do, no matter how many years of service were given to the country. Especially not when vented upon another Retiree doing volunteer service in the base refill pharmacy.
It was something to see, to be sure.
There, at the front of the line, was a guy about 75 years old, trying to get a refill on some scrip—like we all were. The elderly volunteer (and I say elderly not because he’s a Retiree, but because he looks about 90 years old) had to tell him the refill was flagged on the computer as invalid, and couldn’t be filled.
Holy crap, you’d have thought he’d said that they weren’t going to fill it just because they wanted to see his heart explode, right there in the pharmacy. This guy went off in a major way, yelling until his face was beet red, veins standing up in rapt attention and throbbing, and I’m sure little globs of spit were flying from his lips, though I couldn’t see well enough to be sure.
The poor volunteer had to keep his composure through the whole thing, all the while trying to explain that the computer showed this guy’s doc had written a new scrip just two days ago—which had been filled—so the refill on the old scrip was canceled. He couldn’t get the same med twice.
It kind of made me wonder if this wasn’t a scrip for a pain medication, or something potentially addicting, he wanted it so badly.
Still…the volunteers have no control over the scrips, and they can’t dispense anything without a valid prescription. Screaming at them doesn’t help; it just makes them feel bad, and makes the screamer look stupid.
Ten minutes later I was up at the old guy’s window to get a refill on my HGH; he went to the back to get it, and returned with a pharmacy supervisor, looking a little pale.
They were out of the HGH and needed to order it; it’d be in by Monday.
Well, that’s fine. I have 8 days worth left, and I’m used to them needing to order it. It’s a high cost prescription that they don’t keep much of on hand. I’m not the only one who needs it, so they run out. No big deal. So I said “No problem, I’ll come back Monday.”
Being reasonable shouldn’t bring such relief to someone’s face. Being reasonable shouldn’t be the reason why the supervisor also looks relived, and asks someone to wait while they make a call “just to be sure” there’s none available.
But, I suppose being reasonable is reason enough for a 90 year old Retiree to try to flirt with a 42 year old married woman. Within 5 minutes I knew he’d served 40 years (40!!!) and that I have “sparkly green eyes.” I didn’t tell him they were only sparkly because of the contacts.
So, I go back on Monday to get my scrip, where I will wait in a long line again, and where I will remind myself that it’s not going to kill me to wait for 20 minutes, and that most of the people manning the windows spend a lot of time in the military, and have seen horrors enough that they don’t need to see a fully grown person have a three-year-old’s type meltdown. And I’ll remind myself that if I ever volunteer at the pharmacy, that it’s not acceptable to reach over the counter and bitch slap the percentage of Retirees who seem to think that anyone lowering themselves to manning the refill pharmacy is open to such behavior.
Maybe I should take them a few Super Soakers. There’s nothing wrong with dousing a particularly rude person.
Is there?
Wednesday
Monday
Odds & Ends Part 451
You’re never too old to wear Chucks
Some people look better with glasses on, and most days I think I’m one of ‘em.
A label maker can be a fun thing to own.
The cat does not like having a label stuck to his tail.
Some things should never be made into movies, and Starsky & Hutch is one of them.
The cleaning fairy does not appear out of thin air, no matter how much you want her to.
You’re never too old to wear Chucks
Some people look better with glasses on, and most days I think I’m one of ‘em.
A label maker can be a fun thing to own.
The cat does not like having a label stuck to his tail.
Some things should never be made into movies, and Starsky & Hutch is one of them.
The cleaning fairy does not appear out of thin air, no matter how much you want her to.
Thursday
Baby Blues…Well, Grays
So…the Spouse Thingy did not chicken out. He didn’t scream or cry or try to hit and kick his way out of surgery yesterday. He marched in there in his non-Velcro shoes and took it like a man…a man who 25 minutes later had eyes so bloodshot they looked as if they were about to spewt forth a bucket o’blood. His vision was blurry (to be expected) and he was told to go home and sleep as much as possible (closed eyes heal better, I suppose), but to put drops in his eyes every couple of hours.
Today he had his follow up—his vision is at 20/20, and the flaps are settled and healing nicely. He has a bit of a headache, but says it’s like a new-glasses headache, the kind you get when adjusting to a better prescription.
He goes back next week for another follow up, and then in a month for yet another, but it’s all looking good. And his blue-gray eyes are all sparkly :)
Who knows…the whole thing creeps me out, but as well as this is going for him, I might be convinced at some point, when we’re back in CA and he’s making the real money, to do it.
Maybe.
So…the Spouse Thingy did not chicken out. He didn’t scream or cry or try to hit and kick his way out of surgery yesterday. He marched in there in his non-Velcro shoes and took it like a man…a man who 25 minutes later had eyes so bloodshot they looked as if they were about to spewt forth a bucket o’blood. His vision was blurry (to be expected) and he was told to go home and sleep as much as possible (closed eyes heal better, I suppose), but to put drops in his eyes every couple of hours.
Today he had his follow up—his vision is at 20/20, and the flaps are settled and healing nicely. He has a bit of a headache, but says it’s like a new-glasses headache, the kind you get when adjusting to a better prescription.
He goes back next week for another follow up, and then in a month for yet another, but it’s all looking good. And his blue-gray eyes are all sparkly :)
Who knows…the whole thing creeps me out, but as well as this is going for him, I might be convinced at some point, when we’re back in CA and he’s making the real money, to do it.
Maybe.
Tuesday
Eye, Eye
Tomorrow morning, at around 7:30, the Spouse Thingy is having Lasik eye surgery. The whole thing creeps me out (not the idea of seeing clearly, just the idea of my eye being held open and then having part of it sliced) but he’s excited about being able to see without glasses for the first time in practically forever. I don’t think he’s ever clearly seen his own adult face without glasses.
I hope he likes it
Tomorrow morning, at around 7:30, the Spouse Thingy is having Lasik eye surgery. The whole thing creeps me out (not the idea of seeing clearly, just the idea of my eye being held open and then having part of it sliced) but he’s excited about being able to see without glasses for the first time in practically forever. I don’t think he’s ever clearly seen his own adult face without glasses.
I hope he likes it
Saturday
Summer Breeze
When we traded the truck in on the Protégé, the Spouse Thingy said that within a couple of weeks, there would be something oversized we’d want to buy, and would have no way of hauling it home.
Close.
We wanted a pair of plastic lawn chairs; not the webbed fold-out kind—we have those and they’re not very comfortable—but plastic Adirondack chairs. Cheap, but comfy. Nice for sitting outside when it’s warm, gabbing with the neighbors, watching the neighbor kids play in the court.
So we went to Target today, knowing they had exactly what we want. And we knew they wouldn’t fit in the trunk of either car—but hey, I have a convertible. I learned at Christmas time that you can get something too big for the trunk and still haul it home. Just put the top down, set it in the back seat, and then put the top up. Tres convenient.
Only problem is, the chairs were too tall to put the top back up.
It was 48 degrees out.
I was anticipating a very chilly ride home, about which I would be whining the rest of the day (or at least until 2:30, when the Spouse Thingy headed off to work.)
It wasn’t bad at all! We kept the windows rolled up and the heat running, and actually felt a little uncomfortable after a while. It was too warm. Go figure. At least I got to ride with the top down.
And now we can sit outside and watch the kidlets, and drive the cat nuts as he sits in the window and contemplates our reasons for being out there with the little germ bags.
Happy Birthday to Kathy! And Happy Birthday tomorrow to Kaitlyn, who finally gets one on her birthday!
When we traded the truck in on the Protégé, the Spouse Thingy said that within a couple of weeks, there would be something oversized we’d want to buy, and would have no way of hauling it home.
Close.
We wanted a pair of plastic lawn chairs; not the webbed fold-out kind—we have those and they’re not very comfortable—but plastic Adirondack chairs. Cheap, but comfy. Nice for sitting outside when it’s warm, gabbing with the neighbors, watching the neighbor kids play in the court.
So we went to Target today, knowing they had exactly what we want. And we knew they wouldn’t fit in the trunk of either car—but hey, I have a convertible. I learned at Christmas time that you can get something too big for the trunk and still haul it home. Just put the top down, set it in the back seat, and then put the top up. Tres convenient.
Only problem is, the chairs were too tall to put the top back up.
It was 48 degrees out.
I was anticipating a very chilly ride home, about which I would be whining the rest of the day (or at least until 2:30, when the Spouse Thingy headed off to work.)
It wasn’t bad at all! We kept the windows rolled up and the heat running, and actually felt a little uncomfortable after a while. It was too warm. Go figure. At least I got to ride with the top down.
And now we can sit outside and watch the kidlets, and drive the cat nuts as he sits in the window and contemplates our reasons for being out there with the little germ bags.
Happy Birthday to Kathy! And Happy Birthday tomorrow to Kaitlyn, who finally gets one on her birthday!
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