Would You Like a Salad with Your Coke?

17 05 2011

My lovely friend Holly alerted me to the best headline on ksl.com:

Now, I love me an Olive Garden salad as much as the next person, but I’m pretty sure if I had a stash of cocaine I’d hang on to it until someone with actual cash came along. Or at least some warm breadsticks.

I swore I wouldn’t read the story because I wanted to bask in the pure joy of the phrase “Woman tries to trade salad for drugs, gets arrested” but as I snagged the link for you, my lovely readers (because I’m well aware some of you will want more details), I caught this phrase out of the corner of my eye:

She “stated that she wanted some cocaine, but she only had $2 and a salad.”

This is the best news story ever.

There’s a small part of me that says, “You should feel bad for this woman. You understand the pain of addiction.” However, the larger part of me says I’ve never tried to trade vegetables for…well, anything.

Okay, now I went back and read more.

“She told the officer she would return later with more money or some Olive Garden gift cards, according to police.”

I hear one of the hardest parts of being a drug dealer is the inability to buy your own gift cards. Really, this woman was trying to provide a service. The dealer could use them as Christmas gifts for drug mules! “I know last year I gave you an extra dime bag, but times are tough. Here’s an Olive Garden gift card.”

Sigh. Now I’m sad. What kind of world do we live in where drug mules can’t get Olive Garden gift cards for Christmas?

Don’t Go Away Mad

7 03 2011

Girl, just go away.
~ Mötley Crüe

Dear rehab buddy,

You’ve called me several times in the last few weeks, and I won’t lie—I’m screening your calls. Every time your number pops up on caller ID I feel sick to my stomach and a little bit guilty.

I know you need help. I’m sorry for that. I’d answer the phone and tell you the myriad reasons why I can’t help you right now, but I don’t need to hear your lies or excuses. I don’t want to hear your sob story.

Here’s what I know: You tried to pass a forged prescription at the pharmacy where I work. I wasn’t working at the time, and I’m not even sure you know that’s where I’m employed, but it doesn’t matter.

You aren’t well. You’re using.

Perhaps the day will come when I can help you. Perhaps not. All I know is right now, I’m putting myself first.

I’m well. I’m not using.

Good luck.

Please stop calling.



Do they make a pill-shaped arrangement?

15 11 2010

I was browsing a floral website last night (in tandem with Meredith, of Oh, That Meredith fame) to find the bouquet Mer should send for being abusive to me while she’s all drugged up. (Hint: It should be large and expensive.)

There are some hideous floral arrangements out there. I’m not going to link to them, because:

  1. Nobody is paying me for advertising.
  2. I’ll inevitably link something you think is charming, or perhaps you sent to somebody last week, and you’ll hate me.
  3. It’s too much work.

As I browsed, I noticed at the bottom of the screen this site had one of those “similar interests” boxes.

So…apparently I’m an alcoholic who loves cake.

It’s like they’re in my head!

Slow Day at the County Jail

25 09 2010

My tax dollars at work:

Did you catch it? Let’s see some details:

I love a cop with a sense of humor.

Open to Interpretation

8 07 2010

Please be gentle with me. This post was difficult for me to write.

You remember I’m Mormon, right?

Before I dive into this post, my non-Mormon readers need a crash course on the Word of Wisdom. I’m sure you’ve all heard of it in vague terms (“You don’t drink coffee?!”), but a bit more in-depth knowledge is required before my rant will make any sense.

So. Here’s the basic list from mormon.org:

“In addition to emphasizing the benefits of proper eating and physical and spiritual health, God has spoken against the use of:

  • Tobacco.
  • Alcohol.
  • Coffee and tea.
  • Harmful, habit-forming drugs.”

Stick with me, here. Yes, I’ve tried everything on that list. I’ve even enjoyed the hell out of some of it. Obviously I’m not bringing this up so I can try to convince y’all of the error of your ways. I just need you aware of the principle, and now that you are, I can move onto the real reason for this post.

As my faithful readers know, I went to Las Vegas to attend a community pharmacy conference. All our meals were included, and dinner the first night featured an open bar. Sometimes it’s like God is messing with me. “Hey, you down there, I know you have issues with substances and all, and you’re trying to be good, but hey–check out that free liquor!” [Please don’t send me a message about how God really isn’t saying that and it’s totally Satan unless you want to be mocked.]

Anyway, I’m at this conference with free booze 10 feet away from me and…I didn’t drink. I know, right? I’m pretty frickin’ awesome. But it wasn’t just my supreme willpower and desire to do good that kept me from drinking (Did you giggle a little just then? I bet you did!)–it was my fear of judgement. I was at the conference with my boss and two coworkers, all of whom are also Mormon. I knew if I broke down and had a drink, there would be gossip and censuring looks and all sorts of irritating things that make me want to drink even more.

The next day our free lunch came with iced tea. Fortunately, I wasn’t at all tempted. Iced tea is wrong. Argue with me all you want, but I know the truth. Iced tea is icky. I went off to find water, and when I came back, my coworker was sprinkling sugar in her iced tea.

I think I did a double take. It was the very last thing I expected to see. Like, ever. And because I can never keep my mouth shut (That’s endearing, right? RIGHT?!), here’s the conversation that followed:

Me: “So…I’m just curious. How is drinking iced tea any different from if I’d had alcohol last night?”
Her: “Well, tea doesn’t have the same effect as alcohol.”
Me: “I must’ve missed that part in the Word of Wisdom where it talks about how something affects you.”
Her: “It’s my only vice.” [I don’t think she meant that like it sounds. I believe she meant her only vice pertaining to the Word of Wisdom.]

It went on for a bit, but you get the idea.

In light of this new information, I’ve come up with a handy sliding scale for Word of Wisdom offenses:

Level One
You drink caffeinated beverages on a daily basis. Shame on you!

Level Two
You drink coffee or tea. You’re on a slippery slide, my friend.

Level Three
You smoke cigarettes and/or drink alcohol. You’re totally screwed. You will now die of lung cancer and/or cirrhosis.

Level Four
Crack whore.

There, now. Doesn’t that clear things up nicely?

I’ve spent some time trying to figure out why I’m so bitter about this whole encounter, and all I can come up with is that I felt like I’d been judged and found lacking by someone who has problems with the exact same commandment.

What makes me angriest is the knowledge that I’ve done the same thing. I made snide comments about the addicts who came into our pharmacy and then I went home and popped a handful of Lortab. I shook my head in dismay at the people doing sobriety tests at the side of the road, but then deemed myself perfectly capable of driving home after a night of drinking.

One of my biggest pet peeves is hypocrisy, yet I’m one of the worst hypocrites I know.

I’ve become my own pet peeve. Weird. Also, uncomfortable. Someone hurry and do something really annoying so I can focus on something else, okay?

Fear and Loathing in San Francisco

1 07 2010

I wanted to write something a little bit snide and a lot funny tonight, but it’s not flowing. Instead, I find my mind focused on something that happened when I was in 7th grade. I’d all but forgotten it until this morning. Weird.

I’ll preface this by saying that everything I remember from that night is filtered through the eyes of a 12-year-old girl, so I can’t promise it’s 100% accurate. I can say it’s probably more accurate than I’d like to believe.

I lived in the Bay Area during elementary and middle school, and I was a band nerd. I’m not the least bit ashamed of that. After all, I can play multiple instruments. Can you? (FYI, the skin flute does not count.) I was in marching band, jazz band, concert band–pretty much every band offered. My band teacher, Carol Kouklis, was (and still is) the most amazing teacher and friend. Looking back, I’m not sure I would’ve survived middle school without the refuge that band provided.

When Maynard Ferguson did a concert in San Francisco, of course I wanted to go. I’m sure this had nothing to do with the fact that the boy I’d been crushing on for two years (a trumpet player, of course) was going. I’d never be that shallow. Not many people wanted to go, so the few of us who did piled into our student teacher’s car and headed into the city.

Our student teacher was Darrin, and he was funny and awkward in the way that only band nerds in their early 20s can be (you’ll probably have to trust me on that one). He was a brass player and really wanted to hear Maynard, so Kris, Ryan and I piled into Darrin’s car and headed into the city.

During the concert, Darrin and Ryan disappeared periodically. I was naive and hadn’t the foggiest idea what was going on. The concert was great, and I was sitting next to Kris, and everything was good. We were all having a great time.

When it was over, we piled back into Darrin’s car (seriously, it was a very small car) for the long drive home. Darrin and Ryan were in high spirits, which seemed to be reflected in Darrin’s somewhat erratic driving. I think we made it to about the Bay Bridge before Darrin started reaching back and grabbing at my legs. He thought it was hilarious. I didn’t. I couldn’t figure out what was going on–we were all friends, the concert was great, but now Darrin was driving like a moron and trying to grope me. I squeezed my eyes shut and pretty much prayed the entire way home that we’d make it alive.

That was 22 years ago. As an adult, it seems obvious what happened that night, and it pisses me off.

I don’t know why I’m writing about this. Nothing really happened–I got home safe and life continued as normal. But I look back at it and feel sad for that lonely little 12-year-old girl who never bothered telling anyone about it.

I am awesome. If I keep saying it, maybe I’ll start believing it.

28 05 2010

I’m here at the Casual Blogger Conference learning all sorts of nifty things about how to be even more awesome. (I know, it’s hard to believe that’s possible.)

The really funny thing? This is the first time I’ve had writer’s block. I’ve been blogging daily for over 2 months now, and I haven’t the foggiest what to write.

Suggestions from my roommates:

Amber: Write about your boobs.
Jessica: Write about how lame I am.
Jo: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Jo is obviously being the responsible adult. The rest of us are…well, okay, we were all sitting here playing Family Feud on Facebook. I think we may have broken some sort of lameness record there. (“What did you do on your fabulous night away from the family?” “Dude! I totally rocked the Family Feud!”

I was invited to go to a karaoke night and I really, really wanted to go…but it was at a bar.

My favorite moment of the evening: someone asked me if it was against my personal code to go to a bar. Hee. I probably should have said yes and left it at that, but of course I have to say “I’m a recovering addict.” For some reason that sounds less pathetic to me than “I’m holier-than-thou and going to a bar would offend the spirit.”

I’m a little concerned as to what that says about me. I’d rather be labeled as someone with serious issues than someone who’s very devout? I’d spend more time worrying about it, but I think I’ll say “That’s just how I roll” and let it be.

This conference is making me feel bipolar. I’m meeting so many wonderful people (I’ll provide links later–tonight I’m too tired) and having a ton of fun. At the same time, the second I’m not connecting with someone, I feel awkward, lonely and out-of-place. This makes no sense to me. Why can’t I cling to the good? Why can’t I say, “I’ve met awesome people. They think I’m equally awesome. Life is good.”

I could get into the whole “I’ve always felt fundamentally flawed” dialogue, but again, really tired. I’m mostly spewing rhetoric at this point, so I need to end this post.

I do want to make a special shout-out to Heather at Extraordinary-Ordinary. Her support and listening ear have been invaluable to me during the last 12 hours. Heather, you are an amazing woman!

I’ll try to be more interesting tomorrow, my peeps. I like that when I type “my peeps” I imagine all of you as rows of marshmallow-y goodness.

Now that I’ve moved into stream-of-consciousness, I really have to stop typing.