So my day started with a coworker giving me a coupon for a free medium coffee at the Krispy Kreme across the street. I don’t like coupons. Which is stupid and shallow of me, I know. I get embarrassed. Not because I think they make me look poor or something, but because they seem so presumptuous. “Hello, I know how to use scissors. Please give me free stuff.”
I also hate coupons because most of the time I’ve forgotten to read some tiny print on the coupon and am informed that I can’t use my coupon, not on Tuesdays and not on the East Coast between the hours of 9 am to 8 am. But free coffee? All over that. Plus, I had to run to the pharmacy in the same shopping center as the Krispy Kreme, so it just made good sense.
I had to drop off (surprise surprise) a bazillion refill prescriptions for The Crazy Pills. Okay, just three. But still. The pharmacist there must think I am the most tragic head case ever. My prescription history there looks something like this (yeah, suck that, HIPAA):
Prenatal vitamins (haaaaaaaaaaa!)
Tylenol with Codeine for phantom broken foot
Mood stabilizer #1, dosage #1
Antidepressant #3, dosage #1
Mood stabilizer #1, dosage #2
Scary anti-psychotic mood stabilizer horse tranquilizer #1
Scary anti-psychotic mood stabilizer horse tranquilizer #2
Antidepressant #3, dosage #2
Antidepressant #4, dosage #1
Mood stabilizer #1, dosage #3
Antidepressant #4, dosage #2
Mood stabilizer #2
It’s like a roadmap to Babyville with a huge-ass detour through the Dark Land of the Crazy. Anyway. So I drop off my prescriptions and try to look like someone who is stable and also possesses reliable health insurance, which would imply a job and responsibilities.
Then I encountered the Suburbia Phenomenon in which I, a city girl, got in my car, drove to the other side of the same shopping center and reparked my car. Come on, you know you do it too. Why though? What is it about suburban strip malls that suddenly turn me into a big fat lazy ass who drives five lanes over to go to Krispy Kreme?
Again, anyway. I went into Krispy Kreme, where there was a line of other people who presumably also made sure they had the shortest possible walk from door to car, because we all wanted to start eating our donuts immediately. I took this opportunity to listen to my voice mail, which I never listen to if I recognize the number, because I can usually guarantee I already know why you’re calling me.
Jason? Wants to know if I’m home and what the dog’s poop looks like today. My mom? Wants me to call her already, good lord, she’s worried. Coleen? Is drunk and wants to sing me a song. While I did this I found two “voice memos” I somehow managed to record for myself at Andie’s wedding. I am drunk. I am slurring. I am full of HYSTERICAL ideas for my entry about the wedding. Fo’ reaaaal bitch. They’re so good. I wish you could hear them. I would try to make them into an AudioBlog if I had any idea how to do that.
Or if AudioBlog posts didn’t annoy the living SHIT out of me. Because, hello, I’m most likely to be reading your blog at work. So I’m supposed to ANNOUNCE to the entire office that I’m reading your blog at work? Also what, are you that entranced with the sound of your own damn voice?
The first memo is about how I ate Andie’s piece of wedding cake and how it was funny because she and I once ate that other bride’s cake by mistake. But duh, I made Jason take a picture of me eating her cake, so of course I would remember that one. The other one goes like this: “Oh shit. I forget what I was going to record. Because it took me so long to hit the button...thing...um. OH! Okay, definitely write about how your hair fell out during the car ride to the hotel. Because that’s frickin’ weird. Okay, bye!”
So first, I hate my voice, because I sound like I’m 12. Second, I love how I say goodbye to myself on voice memos. Third, why does my language actually IMPROVE when I’m drunk? Also my hair did not “fall out,” like, out of my head. My fancy hairdo just spontaneously collapsed as soon as I got in the car. Frickin’ weird, indeed.
Oh, so by now I’m at the counter of Krispy Kreme, furtively clutching my little coupon, which I handed over to a bunch of Blank Stares. “What’s this?” The girl asked. “So I guess I give you a free coffee?” (See? Coupons and I do not work. We just don’t.) I got my free coffee, and then proceed to order a bunch of donuts so they wouldn’t think I was a freeloader. I ate them all in the car as I drove back across the street to my office.
Somebody called me and I didn’t answer because I’m terrified of the telephone, because I am Crazy. They didn’t leave a voice mail. Oh well.