Luke accompanied me to my yearly physical on Monday. Bad idea. He was casual and cool as we entered the waiting room still sporting his Lightning McQueen sunglasses, and carrying a milkshake. He slowly surveyed the crowd before finally announcing, “Somefing smells phony in here!” I corrected him despite the fact that it was a pretty astute observation.
“Try not to breathe too deeply,” I told him.

After a twenty minute wait we were ushered back to the exam room to wait some more, but Luke decided he needed to go to the bathroom. When we’re at home this isn’t a huge deal, but in a public restroom it becomes a nightmare. He absolutely CAN’T go without taking off ALL of his clothes. Also, being in the ONLY bathroom designated for patients, there were knocks at the door every fifteen seconds from people needing to pee in a cup. With every knock Luke lost his concentration, which was apparently essential. I was desperate to speed things along which meant I had to stand with my back turned AND my eyes closed.

Finally, he was finished, but as I began getting him dressed he slipped away and went running through the office in only a T-shirt and boxer briefs as he laughed hysterically. I wrangled him, and we made it back to the exam room to find out that I had been skipped over for the next patient and would have to wait some more. So we sat in the cold exam room awhile longer while he pointed out every rectangle in the room. There were twelve.

The doctor eventually came in, felt me up with her cold hands, poked me with a needle, and told me how cute and charming my kid was, all of which took no longer than five minutes.

“Thank you,” I replied. “Now, can you refill my Xanax?”

You Can’t Hide Crazy

I actually thought on Wednesday morning, “I wish I had something to write about.” Lo and behold, the Lord doth provide manna from Heaven, because shortly after that thought, I received a picture message of my mother behaving badly from one of her cohorts. Off her meds and without a helmet. That’s how my mother was caught behaving at school this week. This probably clears up any lingering questions you had about me. Now you know, it’s genetic.

Now, truth be told, it was camou day at school and she was trying to prove that her lack of camouflage in no way handicapped her ability to blend in with her surroundings. In a way, she was right. Whatever the reason for her garden party, you have to admit that she makes a pretty cute butterfly bush.

Now, please do not contact me to ask me if my mom is using the bathroom in the photo, because A) it is crude and B) I was already told that, no she is not. I also don’t want to know that I incorrectly diagnosed the foliage in which she is housed. I’m a lot of things, but a master gardener isn’t one of them.

Prescription for Who?

Back in my college days I worked part-time as a pharmacy technician for CVS. Those of you who’ve done your homework might be asking yourselves if this is how I met my hubby, (the pharmacist who counts by threes) and the answer is yes…but I digress.

I was a hard-working employee in a very busy store, but there was one day in particular that will always stand out in my mind. It was a Monday and we were in the throws of the five o’clock rush. The waiting area was full of people and the line at the drive thru wrapped around the building. The pharmacist finished checking several prescriptions and laid them on top of the counter. I picked them up and began calling out names. If no one from the crowd stepped forward to claim the prescription, then I filed it away in the bin and called the next name.

“Prescription for Jones.” No response.

“Prescription for Stephenson.” No response.

“Prescription for Atwater.” No response.

“Prescription for Khunt.”

A hush instantly fell over the crowd and all eyes were on me. The pharmacist’s voice calmly interjected, “Lori,that is pronounced Koont.”

Having realized what I had just shouted, I blushed severely. “My apologies, Mr. Koooont” I replied to the squirrely little man who had regretfully stepped forward to claim his prescription. I was desperate to dig myself out of a hole and I was trying to save face.

“Do you have any questions about your medicine?” I asked just before I glanced down at the ticket and read the word, “Viagra.”

“No,” he replied as he snatched the prescription from my hand. “I’ve taken it before.”

Oh, the irony, so thick that day you could’ve cut it with a knife. As for poor little Mr. Khunt, he became a drive thru customer thereafter, and I was given a hiatus from the cash register. Win-win.