Random thoughts while in line to pick up all the pills Widdle and I take to stay on the good side of the grass:
If you can’t sit down, swallow or breathe after you zip your jeans, please perform a public service and wear a larger size.
The pharmacist has already counted your pills. Unless you’ve had the kind of experience that culminated in a courtroom, you probably don’t need to re-count them at the counter. Twice.
You know what you’ve heard about the facial use of Preparation H? It’s true, it’s cheap and it works.
Even if I won the lottery, I wouldn’t pay $35 for a jar of wrinkle cream smaller than my dog’s snout. (See Preparation H comment, above.)
Mr. President, please stop smoking. Would lung cancer be covered under your proposed health plan?
Until I turned 45, my daily meds were vitamins. Then the hormonal tornado hit town. Now I need pills to sleep, and to keep from growing a mustache.
You don’t need false teeth to appreciate Poligrip. That is some awesome spackle, so keep a tube around the house.
Thirty years ago there was a popular Geritol commercial in which a handsome man beamed at a lovely woman and said, “My wife… I think I’ll keep her.” If that ran in this era, the TV network and Geritol would both be boycotted by angry feminists*. And yet…
On any channel today, children awake after 9 p.m. can watch commercials for pills that will jump-start the lagging male libido. See husband nuzzle wife’s neck! See wife drag him into a beachfront cabana!
Speaking of such commercials, one day I’ll reach my limit and just shoot the TV. What the heck did middle-aged men do back in Grandpa’s day?
I realize you or someone you care about is sick or you wouldn’t be waiting for a prescription, but I can’t ignore your screaming 3-year-old any longer. Carry him outside or stuff an Ace bandage in his mouth.
To the man who told the pharmacy cashier, “I can buy this online for half price!”: That doesn’t make you sound worldly or intelligent. At all.
Last month I was in line behind a plump woman of about 45 who reeked of cigarette smoke. Her prescription? Birth control pills. (I know this because she announced it rather loudly.) Either her doctor could not smell, see or hear, or--after all these years of warnings--they’ve suddenly developed a new pill that won’t cause strokes and heart attacks in obese smokers over 40. And…
My best friend, Floozy, tried three different formulas of the pill 25 years ago. One made her homicidal, one made her lie in the driveway and sob and one made her devour everything in the house, including a package of frozen fatback (and a spoonful of what may have been wallpaper paste.)
If only they made pills to prevent snoring, so I don’t keep Widdle awake. Last week I tried those new nostril plugs. At 3 a.m. I awoke shrieking from a nightmare about being smothered. Widdle said he prefers the snoring.
* I qualify as a feminist, but I’m not angry. Much.
Julie R. Smith, who often forgets to take her meds, can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.