Because I'm a Big Stealin' Stealer

I probably couldn't have written today anyway, because of all the hassle I had to go through refilling Johnny's prescription.

He's out of refills, see, so I called the automated refill re-filling hotline. Which is a device through which you leave a message with eighty-seven pieces of personal information, out of which you inevitably forget a piece or two, so you always make sure to leave your phone number also, just in case. And then you wait...

But they never got around to actually calling the prescription in!

I knew this because I phoned the pharmacy, and also the other pharmacy that the doctor always calls his prescriptions into by mistake, just because it happens to be next door to his office, so he assumes it's the most convenient for everyone, most of all him.

Really, Johnny's doctor doesn't look like this. Really, he's middle-aged. And Middle-Eastern.

Neither of the pharmacies had the prescription, so I called the hotline back and put in my request again. This was Saturday, so maybe I was being a little optimistic when I decided to just swing by the CVS on Monday to pick it up without checking first that it was there. But I was working on the theory that it had been almost a week. They couldn't possibly still be having trouble getting their hands on the ball.

Only it turned out that they could...

Oh, man. Ouch.

...and now Johnny's out of medication altogether.

Well, actually, that's not altogether true. He takes two prescriptions and he's only out of one of them. Hydrochloric acid, I think it's called. It's for his heart.

Yeah, well, if Peter Frampton were getting inside me, I'd probably be needing a prescription, too.

So I sweet-talked the pharmacist into giving me three pills to tide him over (note to self: try this with expired Vicodin).

The pharmacist and I promised each other we would both hassle the doctor until he got off his ass and called it in. So I went home and called the clinic -- not a hotline person this time, but a person-person.

She disconnected me. So I called back. This time she transferred me to the Adult Medicine department, where I was put on hold and forgotten.

I called back and she transferred me to a different department, where I was put on hold again. But this time I could hear someone keep picking up the phone and re-putting me on hold every five minutes, so I hung in...

... until finally somebody came on the line. As far as I know, this person helped me. I mean, she said she'd give the message right to the doctor and get him to call it in.

But that was yesterday. Johnny still has two of those sweet-talked pills left (well, actually, as soon as he eats dinner and goes to bed, he'll just have one). I'll deal with it tomorrow.

Oh, yeah, and the whole point of this post is that I can't possibly write today because, what with all the foofaraw, I left the pharmacy without remembering I'd shoved a Boston Globe under my arm on my way in.

And that's a lie. I did remember it. I remembered it just as I was walking out the door. I pulled myself up to go back and pay, then I thought "Fuck it. I deserve this." And I left.

So now I'm hiding out behind the couch.