Wednesday, August 20, 2008

For the past 8 years (literally) every single month I go to my doctor and get the same 5 prescriptions. They are the same thing every time: inhaled steroid, ritalin (2 bottles, 5 and 10 mgs), an albuterol inhaler, and allegra D. The inhaled steroids, and Ritalin are some pretty heavy scripts.

I went in yesterday with my little stack of prescriptions, written by the same doctor at the same time like he does EVERY MONTH FOR THE PAST 8 YEARS.

The pharmacist goes ahead and fills the steriod, the ritalin, and the allegra D.

She then tells me that she can't fill the inhaler (Which I absolutely 100% CAN NOT be without)

We have the following conversation:
PharmacyLady: I can't fill this the signature doesn't match.
Me: It should, call my doctor.
PharmacyLady: I did.
Me: And?
PharmacyLady: They said they signed it, but I need a valid prescription.
Me: If they signed it wouldn't that make it a valid prescription?
PharmacyLady: If they signed it. I'm not convinced they did.
Me: Can I have the prescription back then?
PharmacyLady: I can't give you back a forged prescription.
Me: Excuse me?
PharmacyLady: This is obviously a forged prescription.
Me: You're actually going to let me walk out of here with steriods and speed, but not an inhaler.
PharmacyLady: Its not valid.
Me: You're right. Fuck oxycodone, valium, vicodin, xanax, percoset...Ive been forging ALBUTEROL prescriptions for 8 years and getting high off of it. I mean really, THATS the primo shit. Call the Feds, you caught me.

I then took my toys and left. Called my doctor who has known me literally my entire life to get a new one.
"Hey, I've been meaning to talk to you, did you tell the pharmacist you've been forging prescriptions for 8 years?"

You've got to be kidding me.

Speechless. I am. Speechless.

It was a joke, which I thought was blatantly obvious by my use of the phrase "That's the primo shit". Seriously, like I'd forge albuterol. If I'm gonna get blown off of illegally obtained prescription meds, I'm getting high off of acne cream and antacids, bitches.

Monday, August 18, 2008

Today is awesome.

I just had a long, meaningful conversation with key people in our organization.

There were charts and graphs and awesomeness.

It was about a half an hour long.

So you can imagine my joy when I got back to my desk and found out that my fly was unzipped.

At least I wore underpants today.
Part of the problem with getting old is the realization that you can't actually do all of the things you were told you could as a kid.

My generation (most of us anyhow), grew up being told there was absolutely nothing on the planet that we couldn't do. So you have fear of enclosed spaces and heights, it's OK Billy, you can still be an astronaut. It's no big deal that Sally looks like she got hit in the face with a shovel, she can still model! As long as she puts her mind to it.

That's the phrase it ends with. "Put your mind to it.".

The more I think about it, the more that phrase is a phenomenal load of bullshit that people have been feeding into for years.

And lately, it's really been chapping my ass. I have been looking for a new career lately, and I'm always met with the same response when I tell people why.

"You can be good at sales, you just have to put your mind to it".

By that logic, I could also be a brilliant neurosurgeon, Lindsay Lohan's next girlfriend, or a nuclear physicist.

Not gonna happen.

It occurred to me that I started this job to get out of sales, and they forced me back into it because of the market, despite my telling them honestly and openly that I sucked balls at it. So I'm getting tired of feeling guilty for sucking exactly as much as I told them I would.

Instead of putting my mind to it, I've decided to put my mind to something else: moving on to a place where I'm happy. And that, my friends, is a gigantic pain in the ass.

Maybe I've been in recruiting too long, or maybe I'm just bitter, but I have the absolute hardest time giving a flying shit about the interviews I go on. It's not that I don't want the job, I absolutely do, but I have apparently reached this point in life where they are no longer any source of stress. I was more stressed out on the commute to get there than I was during the actual interview.

Maybe that's a good thing, maybe that's the universe's way of telling me that I'm doing the right thing by moving on to something I actually want to do.

Either way, as long as I don't have to hear the phrase "put your mind to it", I'm in.

(Check out the links later on today, I'm in the process of updating them.)

Saturday, August 16, 2008

Hey there!

I haven't done one of these since college, but I am drunk and I am blogging.

And it is awesome.

Kudos to Steve, who lets me be drunk and amazing at his house 

steve rocks my socks that way.

YAY for steve. I had tequila.

That is all.

Friday, August 15, 2008

I just had a very disheartening discussion about my blog with my friend Eric.

Not only do I not post enough, it seems, but I have done him a great disservice.

In his own words:

[11:44] Eric: You need to update your blog.
[11:44] TweekerChickQC: It Is.
[11:44] TweekerChickQC: I updated yesterday.
[11:44] Eric: Incorrectamundo.
[11:44] Eric: In all your entries throughout the entire blog, I find myself mentioned exactly 0 times.
[11:44] TweekerChickQC: Awww.
[11:45] Eric: If Dicky McBoner can get mentioned, so can I.

My most sincere apologies if anyone else was offended by this grievous error.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

I've never been one to make a huge deal out of my birthday.

I don't demand candles, or a huge cake (unless Jeffery Donovan or Vin Diesel is jumping out of it, in which case I want my goddamn cake), or presents.

All I really care about is that the people I care about give me a call, an email, an IM, something.

My birthday was yesterday. Again, it was almost a non event. I saw The Dark Knight (incredible movie, see it, seriously), had a few drinks and went to bed. Nothing huge.

I got a shitload of emails, IMs, forum posts and text messages all wishing me a happy birthday, which is awesome. Well, awesome as long as they weren't from Mikey, who has resorted to starting every one of our conversations with the phrase "HA HA YOU'RE OLD!" and "God loves me best!"

Not one of those emails, IMs, forum posts and text messages came from my friends back home. Not. One. Understand, I've known some of those people for going on 12 years now. If I was to forget their birthday there would be absolute hell to pay. Not one of them called me. Not even my best friend (who is apologetic as hell). The rest? Haven't heard from them.

And I am pissed.

For 364 days of the year, I deal with their issues, neuroses, bullshit and drama which a lot of the time is the result of their own actions. I'm supportive even when I want to strangle them. I take calls at all hours of the night, I give good solid advice and I don't blow smoke up their asses.

To make matters worse? I made it easy for every one of them. A few days before my birthday I even reminded them. I mean for fucks sake.

One day a year, just one, I expect them to pick up the phone first. That's all. I don't want a parade, I don't want diamonds (ok thats a lie), I don't want parties and cake, all I ask is that they flip open the same fucking cellphone they call me on to unload all their stupid, bullshit, petty problems and let me know that they appreciate me, just for a fucking second. Just a "hey, thanks for listening to me ramble on about my engagement/best friend/boyfriend/girlfriend/job."

It may sound selfish, but if I'm not important enough to call once a fucking year, then I'm certainly not important enough to field phone calls about their daily lives, engagements, weddings, best friend, boyfriends, girlfriends, jobs, and so on. It all seems so clear now.

I wrote a few days ago about knowing who my real friends are, and I apparently do now. And when I stop answering their calls? They'll figure out who their real friends are. I'm through giving a shit about people who care less about me. Call it a birthday present to myself.

Monday, August 11, 2008

I recently got a crash course in figuring out who my real friends are.

My Grandpa Max was taken to the hospital about 2 months ago with a massive aortic aneurysm. Things were not looking good, the place I was getting ready to drive to was flooding badly and I was not ok.
Insult to injury, I had to break plans with my Sexy Friend who I will refer to from here on out as Sexy Mc Longrod. Why? Because I want to.

My Grandpa Max taught me to drive a stick shift when I was 10. He used to chaperone field trips with me and my sister when we were little, and would give us all the answers to those stupid worksheets and let us run around and learn on our own. He's the best Grandpa you could ever ask for, so I was so far from alright that it wasn't funny.

So what does Sexy Mc Longrod do? He drives 2 hours from Bloomington to give me a big hug. This despite the fact that I hadn't showered. That, readers, is a good friend.

He just wrapped his arms around me and let me cry for a good half an hour. He didn't say anything, just scratched my head and kissed me on the top of the head. Which is what I needed.

Somehow we got started talking about family. And I told him the truth, that my Daddy was a Navy Seal.

The conversation went something like this:
SMLR: Your dad was a SEAL?
Me: Yep.
SMLR: He's probably watching us right now.
Me: Yep. From Texas, he's got the cross hairs on your forehead right now.
SMLR: :Looks left, looks right, pokes my boob:
Me: I'm sure he'll be calling in a few to tell you that the bullet is on it's way from Texas.

Then, and I swear to god this is true, my cell phone rings.

It was my father, who has never in his life called me for anything ever, calling to see what I was doing.

I'm surprised Sexy Mc Longrod didn't dive off the couch and hide.

That alone is not why he's an awesome guy.

This is why.

I don't cry, ever. I don't ever let people see me cry, so I hate it. And when I went to drop him off at the car, I warned him "Don't you ever tell anyone about this".

His response?

He looked me right in the eye and said "Or what? You'll cry about it?"

And that's why he's awesome. Because for a second there, everything was fine.

Thankyou, Sexy Mc Longrod. Couldn't have gotten through it without you love.