Sex, Lies and Videotape

Okay, I have to confess…

There is nothing in this post about sex.

Or videotape. (Which, when paired with sex, can apparently get you a whole reality show career that involves you sleeping with lots of sports stars and finally having a wedding in which you do not spend money but earn it, right Kim Kardashian? but by itself, um, videotape is pretty boring. And really, who makes videotapes anymore? Do they even sell those? Is it a videorecording now? Or do we still say tape just because it’s shorter and kind of rolls off the tongue? Get back to me on that, ok?)

Anyhow, yeah, no sex, no videotape, I was just trying to lure you in. There is however, some lying (even in the title, apparently. I just thought of that.)

So, as you can see, if you read last night’s post, I am STILL HERE. I have once again emerged from my Russian Roulette, victorious. Which means you’ll have a whole new song to learn tonight if I don’t behave myself. So I hope you’re not drinking, because I am depending on you not to fuck this up.

So anyhow, although there has been a lot going on in my life to get me worked up and frazzled and generally homicidal, I realized that what has made all of that even worse is that I RAN OUT OF MY LEXAPRO.

EGADS!!!! (No one says that anymore either but I am on a personal mission to bring it back because it’s so stupid and yet so innocent. I mean, how many times can you say FUCK? I’m testing that limit like all the time.)

So, I took my last Lexapro pill on…lemme see…Sunday night? Figured I could call in a refill on Monday, and then mosey on over to Ye Olde CVS to pick it up same day, in time to take the next dose.

But when I called it in, HORROR OF HORRORS!!!! Ye Automated System at Ye Olde CVS told me that I had RUN OUT OF REFILLS, and that they would have to call my doctor to authorize a new scrip, and that due to the holiday the doctor would most likely be closed, and that therefore they would not be able to call her until Tuesday, and that therefore my scrip would, in all likelihood, not be ready until Wednesday. Because apparently, although it was LABOR DAY, people had the gall to TAKE TIME OFF AND NOT WORK. I mean, what the fuck are we calling it LABOR DAY for if no one is out there LABORING and shit? Does this make any sense to you?

So okay. I tell the automated system at Ye Olde CVS to call the goddamn doctor and have the scrip ready for Wednesday, and then proceed to rid the house of all the guns, knives and hand grenades until Thursday, so that we can be sure that if I do use any of them I will at least be back on the meds and therefore calm and levelheaded about it, and possibly even HAVE A GOOD REASON, other than “I shot that fucker 40 times because I was off the Lexapro.” From what I hear, that doesn’t fly so well in court.

I also figured I’d ask them to get her to authorize more Clonazepam, known in my world as Clona-shaZAM, my awesome anti-anxiety meds that make me totally loopy, half-conscious and completely unable to give a fuck about ANYTHING. I figured with a root canal coming up it would be nice to be completely immersed in la-la land and tiptoeing through the tulips in my head.

I am now steeled for Wednesday. Wednesday is going to be awesome, right?

Well, maybe not.

On Tuesday, I get an email from my doctor.

She does not want to authorize more Lexapro without an office visit.

Should I mention at this point that getting an office visit is like getting in to see Obama? It takes FUCKING FOREVER. And I am OUT OF PILLS. RIGHT NOW.

Not to mention that I didn’t see this goddamn email until Wednesday because for some reason… I’m just not so into email these days. I go for days without looking at it and even then, I just skim. Which is not so good because that’s how a lot of our bills get delivered. The companies that text me get paid, the rest of those fuckers, well, it’s hit or miss for those guys.

So now, I have to call the office on Wednesday, which is today, and ask to see my doctor, which I do. Well, guess what? She’s not available again until NEXT MONDAY! What the fuck is she DOING until NEXT MONDAY? I mean, who the hell is THAT BUSY? She’s a fucking general practitioner, not an oncologist or something really important with a long name that you can’t pronounce. This means a WEEK WITHOUT LEXAPRO. And you know what that means…now, I have to put away the SECRET STASH OF GUNS, KNIVES AND HAND GRENADES that I kept out just in case of Armageddon or some shit.

So I threaten to kill them beg them to let me see any goddamn doctor who is available.  Actually, it doesn’t even have to be a doctor, the fucking janitor will do, as long as he has access to a prescription pad and can GIVE ME MY FUCKING MEDS.

Now, here’s an aside, dear reader. (For you people that have the gall not to read or study literature, an aside is when your narrator comes out of the story to sort of give you a side note, which is something I actually do pretty often, but it’s just that now I’m telling you about it. But that, in itself, was not the aside, although I am glad to have had the opportunity to teach you shit you should already know share something with you. Now we’ll go back to the original aside, but the next time I say that, you better know what the fuck I’m talking about.)

Anyhow, the aside: I don’t know if you have experienced this before, but there is a sort of Murphy’s Law of Doctors, which states that if you need to see a doctor in an emergency, not only will your doctor not be available, but the doctor that you will be scheduled to see in your sensitive time of desperate need and illness, will be the one doctor in the practice who is a COMPLETE FUCKING ASSHOLE.

This shit happens to me ALL THE TIME.

It used to happen to me with the kids. The first pediatrician they had was so nice but there was another one in the office who used to act as though you had shown up at his house at 3 am with your 5 kids and asked him to give them their annual exams. Total jerk. And whenever Punksin or Pudding got sick, guess who we got to see? I couldn’t figure out why we always got this douche, why his ass was always available, until it hit me – no one else wanted to see him either! So they’ve got patients doing backflips to avoid seeing him, which meant that when you had an emergency, his schedule was WIDE the fuck open. It got to the point that when the kids did get sick, I would be thinking, gee, I know Pudding can’t breathe and is turning blue and his eyes are rolling back in his head…but do I really need to take him in? Do I really need to take Punksin in with that #2 pencil embedded in her neck? She’ll be okay…just walk it off! Because… what if we get Dr. I. M. Acunt?

That was when I knew I needed to change practices before my kids died while I sat there hemming and hawing about avoiding this shithead.

And it’s the same thing with my practice. There is one doctor in this practice who just rubs me the wrong way, she’s just abrupt and terse and generally unpleasant, and I try to avoid her like the plague, unless, of course,  the day comes where I actually get the plague, in which case I will ask to see her specifically and will make a point of coughing with my mouth wide open and sneezing copious amounts of plague-bearing snot right in her face.

Of course, today, since my doctor was doing some completely rude thing like SEEING OTHER PATIENTS, guess who I got?


I go in, and for once, I actually get ushered in from the waiting room quickly. Again, you know why…no one else wants to see this heifer either.

In to the examination room, and I’m there for a few minutes fucking around with the medical supplies reading a magazine, when the doctor breezes in the door, shoves a paper onto the examining table next to me, mutters “Fill that out for me” and leaves the room again.

No hello, how are you feeling, hi, a smile, some fucking greeting of humanity. Just completely RUDE.

Which I, of course, commented on rather LOUDLY after she had left, hopefully loudly enough for her to HEAR. Clearly Bedside Manner was not her shining moment in medical school.

A few minutes later she comes back in and proceeds to drill me on why I need the Lexapro and how long I’ve been on it. To which I rudely respond that “it SHOULD be in the file.” I mean, they’re all computerized, she’s sitting there with a laptop right in front of her face with my whole medical history right on it. What the fuck are you asking me for? You want to know how long I’ve been on it, look that shit up, heifer. Why do I have to do your job? I don’t know how long I’ve been on it, what I know is how long I’ve been off it, which is 3 days and I’m getting crazier by the minute; if she had any sense she’d realize that was the shit she needed to be worried about, for her own health as well as mine.

So then she asks me about the Clona-shazam, wants to know how often I take it, and I say hardly ever, which is actually true.  So she says, “what, like twice a week, every day…” Now, I don’t know how the fuck you get “every day” from “hardly ever,” but now she has confirmed that not only is she mean, but she’s stupid. So I quantify it, but because I’m growing more evil by the minute and I can actually feel the fangs starting to descend from my gumline, I don’t make it easy: I tell her that I had the scrip filled for 30 pills last November – almost a year ago – and I still have like 6 pills left. You’re a doctor – DO SOME MATH. Take 12 months, subtract 2, multiply by 30 for a close estimate of the number of days I’ve had the bottle of pills. Good. Now take 30 pills, and subtract 6. Take the second answer, and see if it comes even remotely close to the first answer, dumb ass.

She somehow figured out that with 24 pills, I could not have possibly taken a pill a day, or even every other day, for the past THREE HUNDRED DAYS.

Then she looks at me and says “And you don’t drink alcohol when you take these, right?

And I look at her completely stone-faced and say,

Absolutely NOT.”

Obviously, she missed last night’s post.

Then she asks me if I smoke and I say no, which is true because a) I nearly died from asthma growing up so I’m not about to smoke, b) cigs cause cancer and I get pissed off enough when OTHER people smoke them around me and, c) for the price of a pack of cancer sticks, I can buy a nice bottle of wine or some nail polish. (Did I tell you my latest obsession is nail polish? Because I actually have NAILS now? I’m a chronic biter but I have NAILS. I’m so in love with them. This is only the second time in my life that I have had real NAILS. I so want to get into a fight and scratch somebody…even though that’s a bitch move, I do prefer a good solid punch, but now that I have NAILS, I want to fight like a girl so that I can leave claw marks on someone’s face. Or maybe I’ll scratch The Tech Guru during sex. I don’t know if he’s into that, though, cuz I never had nails before, I’ve tried to do that scratch move but since all I’ve had are nubby fingers all I end up doing is giving him these awesome back massages, which just makes him sleepy.)

Anyhow, I sit there in the doctor’s office, swinging my legs nonchalantly while inside I’m thinking about holding her up against the wall by the throat and saying “GIVE ME THE FUCKING PRESCRIPTIONS, BITCH” in my Exorcist voice, which I normally only use on telemarketers and Jehovah Witnesses who ring my doorbell, but today seems to be taking on a life of its own because it WANTS TO COME OUT.

But finally

She gives me the prescriptions.


And yes, I have FILLED THOSE FUCKERS, which means I can pull out the guns, knives and hand grenades again.



No, I’m not talking about ME. I’m talking about THE GOVERNMENT, which has this whole fucking holiday called LABOR Day, during which the whole entire country…is OFF. WTF?

Oh, I forgot. I will actually not be drinking tonight so…no homework for you! Isn’t that awesome?

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