Have you ever felt judged by a snotty pharmacist? When I was taking care of business yesterday at Walgreen’s, I innocently asked the woman behind the counter about a certain fiber product. She gave me a “You wanna be a Pupur” kinda look and then gave me the standard, stupid answer, “You’d better check with your doctor.” I’m still trying to figure out why pharmacists go to school for so many years…to learn how to count pills? They certainly never give sound advice.
Case in point: the rude pharmacist at the Rite-Aid in Hollywood. I flew out to California a few years ago to visit my friend Garritt. It was, BAR NONE, my worst trip ever. It rained the entire weekend, soiling our boardwalk roller-blading and beach-frolic plans. Then, Garritt’s psycho ex-girlfriend tried to break the door down and kill me while he was at work. Then he didn’t come home for hours and I thought she had murdered him but didn’t know because I accidentally erased the message he left on his dysfunctional answering machine. Then we got stuck in traffic for hours and hours on the way to dinner with a bickering couple. In the rain. Only to wind up eating greasy food at the food court.
By my final night, I had enough. Garritt promised me a fun evening of Wolfgang Puck’s and the Laugh Factory in Hollywood. I was stoked; could this trip finally be redeemed?
Nope. Because during dinner, I was suddenly doubled over with the most agonizing stomach pain that wouldn’t go away. Worried my appendix was going to burst, Garritt offered to drive me to the UCLA Medical Center. I weakly told him we should just find a drugstore and see if they could medicate me.
We drove to the Rite-Aid in Hollywood. We had no idea what I needed so decided to ask the pharmacist. I have never seen a busier drugstore and the line was at least 15 people long. Fifteen snooty Hollywood types who were dropping in to get their prescriptive buzz for the weekend. And me. Doubled over in agony.
By now, the pain was like a knife gashing into my stomach. When it finally was my turn, I limped up to the pharmacist and wheezed, “Do you have anything for excruciating stomach pain?” She took one look at me and then at alllll the Hollywood royalty before shrilly announcing, “Is it GASSSSSS?”
This question still resonates today. Garritt slunked away and all of Hollywood snickered as I hissed back, “It is NOT gas.”
Turns out, it probably was. And it was bad enough to ruin the rest of the night. And so (in keeping with my Murphy’s Law life) instead of The Laugh Factory, I spent the night doped out on Garritt’s couch experiencing The Gas Factory. Take it from me, there was nothin’ funny about it….
I'm a Canadian-born mom of two, former Denver Post columnist, family travel writer, editor of MileHighMamas.com and 9News contributor. Expert on all things Utah, Denver, family and travel. Lover of laughter and life. Happily married to a man obsessed with growing The Great Pumpkin. 