Post-Midterms Twofer (Part 1): I Almost Drowned Today

So, as I have mentioned before, I work in a retail pharmacy.  We're a relatively slow store, but we are one of the very few stores that offer compounded medications.  For instance, we can make Phenergan Gel that you can rub on your wrists.  If you're projectile vomiting, it's somewhat difficult to keep a pill down, and most people tend to shy away from inserting any objects in their butt.  It's just unpleasant...er...I mean...um......I've heard from...um...other people....that it's...um...............YES I'M AWESOME!

Ahem.

Anyway, one of the things we make is Boric Acid vaginal suppositories.  We were running low, so I decided to make a batch while we were slow.  It's pretty easy, just time consuming.  You have to measure out a couple ingredients, melt one down, and mix the others into it, then pour the entire concoction into some molds.  Simple stuff.  Unless you get attacked by the Silica Gel.

Silica Gel is an interesting monster.  It's a nearly weightless solid (not a gel, interestingly enough) that acts like a powder (read: floats in the air) until it gets wet.  Once it comes into contact with any type of moisture, however, it sucks it up and expands.  Somehow the container got slightly pressurized.  Maybe because someone left it under the heating vent.  Just a thought.

However it happened, I unscrewed the lid and it puffed up into my face.  Fortunately I was breathing out, because if I had inhaled a bunch of it I could have become the first person in the history of history to dry drown.  There are several other nasty side effects to inhaling this crap that I would like to avoid.  While managing to drown in the middle of a pharmacy would make an interesting obituary, I'd prefer to remain boring yet alive than spectacularly dead.

King of the Hill

Well, it's been a week or so since my last post, mostly due to my lack of time because of midterms and such.  In case you're ever presented with the choice of going to college while not working, I suggest you take it (under the condition you don't go into an ungodly amount of debt, that is), because you will still get to have a life.  Anyway, I mention my absence in order to denounce those who would take issue with my blog's continuity.  I will persevere in this endeavor, and will have more time (read: more posts) after this hell-week of tests.

However, I will leave you with this nugget, this gem, this treasure of an analogy, uttered by my friend Zach.  We were discussing international economics (don't ask me why), including how Greece has roflstomped the Euro, as well as the fact that China owns just over 99.3% of America, and he told me the following:

"It's like we're playing a giant game of King of the Hill with our [manhoods] tied in a knot.  As soon as somebody falls, we're all screwed."

I fell out of my chair laughing.

Random Crap You Should Know: I Can Hear You

Welcome to a new column on Nightingale’s Folly, which I have chosen to call “Random Crap You Should Know.”  I considered “The Guide to Life If You Have an Extra Chromosome” as well as “If You Don’t Already Know This, Please Die in a Fire,” but I chose the high road.  Plus "IYDAKTPDIAF" is just a little too much.  It also looks like I fell asleep on the keyboard.

For my inaugural installment, I chose a topic that is very near to my heart.  Because I work in a retail pharmacy, I come into contact with a plethora of different people on a daily basis.  My store has a veritable cornucopia of humanity; a populace of individuals, homogenized, and paraded by my counter at a rapid rate.  While there are many traits that set the pleasant people apart from the demonspawn, the most important, nay, vital component of an intelligent human being can be summed up in one word:  deodorant.

If I can smell you before I can see you, we have a problem.  Now, I understand if you’re on your way home from the gym, or the AC is out on your car.  We've all been there, and I am more than happy to make allowances.  However, if you smell like an octopus’s sphincter, you should probably pick up some Speed Stick before gracing us with your presence.  It’s on isle three, between the razors and the condoms, which is great product placement at work, because you need to use the first two if you want to use the third.

My store is on the border between a middle class suburb and the ghetto; a proverbial last chance before crossing the Rubicon into the land of Ford Tauruses (Tauri?) on 32’s.

(Yes, I know it’s an Impala.  I wanted to work in the “Tauri” joke, so shut up.)

This unique placement gives us a very diverse clientele.  Some are intelligent, some are ignorant.  Some are angelic in their demeanor, some make me want to hit them with something large and blunt.  I can (and have) handled the most difficult customers with little problem (it helps that my boss is awesome to the point that he once told an old racist guy "Get the **** out of my drive-through before I beat the osteoporosis out of you".), but the one thing I cannot stand is someone who smells so bad that I can hear their stench.

Pardon Me While I Wax Sentimental

Impatiently, we wait for you,
Barely containing our desire
To know you.
Our very hearts beat together
As yours, yet unformed,
One day shall,
Together yet separate.
Your destiny unknown,
Your very name remains shrouded
In the mystery of the moment,
Yet we know you well,
Young stranger.

This is teh clud fer yew!

Deuring a brake n oen of my klasses, I came acrost this powster on a walle of the colege I atend.  I dide a litle incide.

It is extremely difficult to type using such atrocious spelling.  I had to edit that section four times, because my OCD tendencies forced me to spell most of it correctly, even though I was purposely doing it wrong.

Schmalentines

'Ello again.

As this year's Valentines Day draws to a close (considering it's 3am as I write this, i guess we are past the apex of its "Valentinea"), I would like to take this time to reflect upon the absolute crap-hole of a day this is if you work in a retail setting.

I work in the pharmacy of a rather slow Walgreens.  We have rushes, like anyone else, but we generally have a laid back work experience.  This was not the case today.

The first sign of the atrocity that was today manifested itself in the parking situation with which I was greeted upon arrival.  Or, I should say the lack of a parking situation.  I had to circle the bloody building three times, waiting for someone to leave so I could go to work.

When I was finally allowed to enter the soul-sucking vortex from which I will probably never escape, I found that the line at the front register resembled the one at the DMV, except that it was about 80% male, and most of these had flowers and/or candy (which is a pretty sad comment on the "I want it now!" last-minute mindset of our culture).  Ever single flower represented was a red rose.  I wasn't even aware that Walgreens had flowers, but I guess you can probably score a bouquet of roses at Denny's if you go on February 14th.

I tell you this to pose a question: why are red roses considered the "love" roses?  What's wrong with the yellow ones?  Or the white?  Heck, I've seen purple roses.  Why do we neglect all these other colors and go for the red ones?

I think that the color of the flower should say something.  Yeah, I know, there is an accepted "give this color if..." scale, but it's crap.  Yellow = friendship?  There are not words for the awkwardness that would arise from me giving any of my friends yellow roses.  Maybe the scale is just for girls.  Well, that's even more crap, because it's a sexist scale.  I'm a guy, and I want my own scale.  I decided to make up my own meaning for one of the least used colors:

Merry Valentines Day to all, and to all, time to go to freaking bed.

I'm on to you...

Dear Kimberly,

Over the years that I have known you, I have been able to observe your behavior in a myriad of situations.  Little did you know that I have been cataloging this information for later use, and have come to an alarming conclusion.  You are either a serial killer or insane.  Probably both.

I come to this conclusion because it is the most likely explanation for your actions, particularly those concerning me.  For instance, no matter how often I forget to accomplish the most simplistic task (wash the dishes, bathe the dogs, eat lunch) you always forgive me and help me complete said task.

            

            In addition, you often tell me, in many different ways, that I am attractive.  We all know this is a bald-faced lie, especially when you take into consideration the fact that I have spent a grand total of seven minutes in my entire life attempting to be attractive, and all of those took place before we were even married.  You told me I was handsome a few mornings ago, and I was not.  I know this, because it was 7:00 on a Monday morning, and I was up until 3 the night before.  My hair held a remarkable resemblance to that of Jim Varney, and my eyes were completely crusted over, to the point I had to open them with my fingers.

            

            Initially, I thought you were simply mocking me, but you always sound so earnest that I am forced to attribute said comments to an ulterior motive (such as a desire to see me stuffed and mounted on the wall) or a clear lapse in sanity.

                

            Another example of your nefarious plotting can be found in your love of special occasions, such as my birthday and our anniversary.  I am the worst special-day-rememberer in the world.   I forget my own birthday most of the time, and I have forgotten nearly every special occasion the entire time we have been together.  Most wives yell and scream if they don’t get a “Happy Ramadan” card, but you barely even mentioned it when I forgot your birthday.  You even put up with my pitiful “making up for it” ceremony, involving about a month of “Happy seventeen days after your birthday”, etc.

            

            Again, Occam and his teaching lead me to believe you have some devious plot to sell my internal organs on Ebay.  Why else would you react to my thoughtlessness in such a way?

        

            Finally, I cite the final reason I believe you may be a deranged psychopath: you cook and clean for me, even though I HAVE NEVER ASKED YOU TO DO SO!  What is wrong with you?!?  What type of sick individual takes time out of her already busy day to prepare meals for someone who would be content to eat ramen noodles every day?  Or do laundry for a person who is completely happy to wear the same thing four days in a row?  Granted, the laundry thing might be slightly motivated by self-preservation, because you would also have to live with my stench, but that can’t be the only reason.

    

            I am writing this to let you know that I’ve figured out your scheme.  To be honest, it wasn’t that hard.  You were too perfect!  You might have gotten away with it if you yelled once in a while, or nagged a little.  You should have been less witty and engaging!  It must be a farce, because no one is so utterly perfect all the time!

            I’m watching you.  This behavior had better stop, or I will be forced to alert the FBI.

(idea from Hyperbole and a Half)