Yesterday, I went to the pharmacy at our local grocery store. I’m afraid I’m probably their best customer, with all the little pills I’m prescribed for my old arthritic gymnast knees, the missing (pesky) female parts and the chronic fatigue. (That little old lady on TV that opens up that monstrous pill container that slightly resembles a tackle box? That will be me soon.)
The lovely pharmacist was busy filling the billion scripts that were piled by her computer, and she had managed to get help at the register by a young girl I’ve seen at the customer service desk. The girl looked at me sweetly and I told her my name. She quickly located all my tiny bags and put them on the counter when I realized I had to pick up something for Bitchy.
“Oh, I think you might have my daughter’s allergy medicine ready, as well.” I saw my pharmacist smile as she heard me say that.
The girl at the register looked at the bag she had plucked off the shelf and, in a voice loud enough for the whole line to hear, said, “This isn’t ALLERGY MEDICINE! It’s BIRTH CONTROL.”
I looked at the pharmacist (who laughed out loud) and then back to the young girl. “You obviously don’t have teenage daughters. When YOU’RE a mom, you’ll be calling it allergy medicine, too. It makes it a tad easier to swallow.”
(We could always call it the “insurance package”, right? Or even my little “sleep well at night” pills. Somebody stop me. )