Overheard at Duane Reade

So you know it's customer service at its finest....

Pharmacist (I just accidentally typed "Charmacist" first, which you'll soon discover is far more appropriate. Let's stick with that!): Last name?
Customer 1: Gilman, G-I-L
Charmacist: Gilman? G-E-O
C1: G-I-L
Charmacist: Dorothy?
C1: Andrea.
Charmacist: Is your first name Dorothy?
C1: No, still Andrea.
Charmacist: Is this your prescription?
C1: Well, that's not my name and not my prescription so no.
Charmacist: When's your birthday?
C1: 7-10-76.
Charmacist: Date of birth?
C1: 7-10-76
Charmacist: 7, 10, what year?
C1: 76.
Charmacist: 7, 10, 71?
C1: 76.
Charmacist: 7, 10... 78?
C1: 76.
Charmacist: Ah, here.
Customer who got his prescription before Customer 1: Can I please pay?
Charmacist: I can't ring you up, there's no cashier. Who's next to pick up?
Customer 2: I am. It's Andrew Gentle, last name G-E-N-T-L-E.
Charmacist: D as in David?
C2: No, G as in George.
Charmacist: G as in judge?

G as in judge, people. Make it your new inside joke with yourself. She then shook her head and said, "I can't do any more than I am." Obviously not.

For Gentlemen—Things Not to Say After Sex

1. Anything about your ex (even "My last girlfriend would never do THAT!")
2. Details about the last time you masturbated.
3. Info about your psychoactive med regimen ("I didn't think I could orgasm because I'm on Zoloft!")
4. Any comment about where I work (as in, "Wow, I see you learned something from [famous sex book I recently did a relase for]!"
5. Glimpses into your issues. ("Usually I get really depressed right after sex!")

Last month, during my first and last sleepover with a well-meaning guy, I experienced items one through five.

I believe that honestly has its role in, say, the legal system. But in bed? Shut up. Please.

If You Are Running Low on Cockroaches

Drop by, because I have a whole bunch living under the top of my oven. I should warn you, though, before you get excited about the price, they're all deformed and poisoned because they recently started spraying in my building, so the bugs have lumps and they walk crooked and their wings are ripped off and they're too dumb to run away when I'm around. One walked under the arch of my foot the other day. It's so gross. I never had them UNTIL they started spraying the rest of the apartments, and then they came here for safety.

Last week I sprayed one with Sure Shot three times, then lit it on fire when it walked across one of my burners. And it still ran off. Stupid Die Hard roach.

Vo. Mi. Ting.

The Most Boring Secret Life EVER

I always imagined that leading a double life would involve some exciting after-hours pursuit, say, sex work or private investigating or freelance assassining. Community college student never really crossed my mind.

Since I already have a job—and hope to continue doing so for the two and a half years until I begin Imaginary Nursing School–I generally am not telling people that I'm taking, of all things, chemistry. Even though it's an insanely dull piece of potential gossip, were someone to innocently mention to someone I work with who'd mention it to a boss, I'd be seen as a sitting duck and tortured or elbowed out.

Mostly it's tough because I've never been a secretive person, often erring on the ugly side of self-disclosure. For now, I'm sticking to the expert advice I've collected on how to lie—keep it simple and don't offer details. "I can't, sorry," seems to be so far effective. But it's a little more awkward with the people close to me who I like, but who know enough types in my industry to make it a risk to tell them. Especially when I had standing Monday night appointment viewing plans with some.

I talked it over with my friend Elsie–she's good at keeping secrets and used to work in my biz. She said she thought it'd be totally fair to just say that yes, I have class, and if anyone asks, that's it's a writing workshop. That makes sense, because I work in books and know scads of people who take those. And it's unlikely whoever I'm talking to would ask questions, because who in God's name wants to be invited to a reading or offered a first look at an ill-written memoir? Elsie says if she found out later that someone had lied about that, it would make sense and not feel like a personal slight.

We'll just assume for now that I won't get caught making copies of the chem labs at work.

Deep Breaths

So this is late because I had to spend precious me time "breaking up" with someone I met three weeks ago. Along with enrolling in college, I apparently signed up for college-era problems. Retarded.

Lab this week was more than I ever could have imagined as far as how mind-numbing it would be to be in school again—and it lived down to all my expectations for community college. I began doing the lab project assigned in the book. Halfway through, our teacher modified it. Let me let the project speak for itself:

We were supposed to dump an unknown amount of water in three different cylinders and measure it, with the resulting measurements varying based on how precisely each cylinder was marked. Okay? Great. By the end, our assignment was to:
1. Pour 100 mL of water into a cylinder
2. Measure how much water is now in the cylinder
The end.

Obviously there were not the correct amount of spaces for anything on our worksheets, because the assignment made no sense. And we supposedly get marked down if we cross any answers off on our worksheet (no word on what happens if we leave parts blank because they don't match the instructions). But as it'd be more complicated to explain that and risk making everyone in class re-do the actual experiment, I tried to breathe deeply and practice patience for the greater good. See how caring I am?? I'm going to be an amazing nurse!

Also she took attendance out loud. True story. Oh, and the Russian girl in class is named Svetlana, obviously.

Math Soothes The Savage Beast

(The "savage breast" always made me uncomfortable.)

Anyway, day one of a real lecture, which I spent reading the chapter for the week, doing the study problems to make sure I understood them, and doing the homework math questions as they were posted throughout class. After two-plus hours of conversions and scientific notation, I realized that I—an out and proud rageaholic—felt, well, calm. It was like a runner's high without the energy required for those absurd daydreams.

I hadn't experienced that sensation since post-college when I used to split up the landline phone bill (remember those?) between my two roommates and I, itemizing each 17-cent 1-minute long distance call and dividing the fees and taxes proportionally based on who used it more (nerd alert). Despite my career in writing, I've always loved math. It can be so frustrating when you don't get it but there always IS something to get. You get to be right or wrong, and it's so blissfully refreshing.

One problem with my job (in short: boiling psychological takes on relationships down into short PR blurbs) is that I've dissected human interactions in every imaginable form. So when there's drama, it's not like I bury myself in work, because work is all ABOUT overanalyzing drama. Instead, work just encourages me to dwell on it. To get away from all that and gain some perspective, I had to hunker down and do math. F writing through my feelings. My shrinks should have told me to "math out" my worries.

I had to wonder... could all of life's problems be solved with a simple mathematical formula? Hahaha I'm so kidding. Gross. (PS: I'm a total Miranda.)

Point is, I went in after 72 hours of overanalyzing and feeling unsettled and enraged (by a guy who acted flaky which proves that he feels x about me and y about himself and z about commitment and aa about boundaries and bb about respect and...) , and came out with a simple, realistic take (he's a dumbass who didn't think).

Also, my lab partner works at a hospital and is bringing me a lab coat. WHAT UP. I know. Killer.

This Post Should Prove to Be Timeless

But anyway, these were my favorite ads during the SuperBowl:



Hahaha I like the PUNCHING in the FACE.



Hahah the stain is really mean.

Sigh.