Pharmacy 101

I swung by the Pentagon CVS (yes, there's a real CVS in the Pentagon - we also have a dry cleaner, a gourmet chocolate store [a recent addition] and a Starbucks) to pick up some medication. Because that's what I do these days - pick up and pay for medication. (More on paying for medication later in this post.)

I walked over to the pharmacist and said, "I take an MAO-I and wanted to know if I can take this drug with it." I held up a very basic drug that had a vasoconstrictor in it. I'm going to spare you the details of why one doesn't go with the other, suffice it to say that I have to wear a MedicAlert bracelet because of the myriad potential drug interaction hazards presented by my miracle Parkinson's drug called Azilect, which falls into the MAO-I (or Monoamine oxidase inhibitors) class of drugs.

The pharmacist stared at me as though I were out of focus. "M. A. O. I?" He squinted at me and spelled out the letters with his fingers.

"Are you the pharmacist?" I asked.

He looked annoyed and said, "Yes!"

Then he started scrambling around looking on his computer for whatever this alien MAO-I was.

Have I forgotten to mention his heavy Vietnamese accent?

Lest you hurl accusations of racism at me, let me say right now that my Ethiopian pharmacist at the CVS near my house, whose English is almost as incomprehensible as the Iranian pharmacist-in-training, still understands VERY CLEARLY what an MAO-I is. And he never has to write it down or make magical air drawings to figure out what I'm talking about.

Long story short, the Vietnamese pharmacist had no idea what I was talking about. And to avoid poisoning myself, I put the other drug back on the shelf and hissed, "I'll GOOGLE it," as I stormed out.

Oh, first I stopped the knuckle-dragging assistant manager and yelled at him about the pharmacist trying to kill me. He nodded sweetly at me like a child in receipt of a warm cookie.

I marched indignantly back to my kennel in the press room and fumed for a moment until I realized something. I'm a REPORTER. I should WRITE to someone about this problem.

And I did.

I got a quick response from CVS corporate, who wanted to know more about which pharmacy I had gone to. I went into stealth Pentagon-investigative reporter mode and went right back to the CVS. This time I asked the Vietnamese Pharmacist to get me a different drug from the shelves. While he was hunting around for it, I jotted down his name and pharmacy number from the certificate on the wall.

Then I ran out of there - very Bourne Supremacy: The Pharmacy Chronicles.

Long story short (too late, I know) - the store manager called me and said I should pay him a visit so he could apologize and make things right.

I shall now replay the conversation:
CVS Manager: I want to apologize for the mistake and promise it will never happen again.
Me: I appreciate that.
CVS Manager: I think part of the problem is that he's deaf in one ear.
Me: What?
CVS Manager: The pharmacist is deaf in one ear.
Me: Um. Okay.
CVS Manager: So perhaps he just didn't hear what you asked him.
Me: Right.
CVS Manager: So next time you could write it down for him so there isn't any confusion.
Me: Ah.

A deaf Vietnamese pharmacist. Sweet.

Now on to my payment plan for my meds...My mother discovered a copy of Mao's Little Red Book, translated into French and signed by the evil Haitian dictator, Baby Doc Duvalier. She offered it to me to sell on eBay to make some cash for my medical bills. I ended up selling it for a pretty penny to a guy in Australia.

I related my story to a Haitian guy at the office. He frowned and said, "Baby Doc was a very bad man." I agreed wholeheartedly, but said I thought it was a positive karmic move for me to use the proceeds from the sale of the book (to a collector) to pay for my medications. And then I said I was hoping to make money from other dictator-related paraphernalia I put up on eBay.

"Like what?" he asked me.

Well, I said, I've got a pair of Pol Pot's ear muffs I'm putting for bid.

He didn't laugh.

Leaving the Biosphere

Oh, how I shall miss the creepy elevator that waits until the doors close you in to launch into its moment musicale. And the explosive sound of the Bellagio fountains, every fifteen minutes between 8 and midnight. And the sight of Orthodox Messianic Jews playing poker at the high roller tables. And the view, a teeny-tiny slice of it, of the mountain desert - peeking at you between the Planet Hollywood and the blindingly bright advertisement for Peepshow.

In just a few hours, I'll be heading to the airport to go back to life in the District of Columbia. And I. Can't. Wait.

This is just not the city for me. I'm like a Mormon at a Starbucks convention, an Amish family at a NASCAR race, an Evangelical Christian at a pro-life, lesbian, feminist Planned Parenthood convention. Vegas just doesn't appeal to me.

As I pack, I'm watching the Today show on our 50-foot television screen and Bon Jovi is playing live in New York. The song they're playing is "It's My Life," which is very uplifting. However, the news scroll going over Jon Bon Jovi's head says "DC Sniper is put to death..." Awesome.

I'm so glad that whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Particularly Vegas itself. I'm really happy Vegas stays in Vegas.

Journey Into Middle Earth

Rivka and I were reflecting on our horrible trip to Israel two years ago and I said, "Well at least we launched a wonderful friendship."

She looked at me and said, "Yes, our friendship is like a lotus. They bloom in mud."

This afternoon after a long nap, Rivka and I decided we needed to leave the temperature controlled biosphere and go outside for some fresh air. This was kind of a mistake.

We had lunch in "Paris" and then decided to walk down the Strip and take in the sights. Here, a list of some of the sights:
1. A midget (little person) dressed as a leprauchan touting 24-hour Happy Hour at O'Shea's bar. Rivka said seeing him in that horrible green costume made her feel as though "the last remnants of humanity has been sucked from the city." And then she said she wanted to nap again.
2. We were given the option to take a "gondola ride" in "Venice" - either one trip around the fake outdoor pool or an indoor cruise past Barney's New York for $16.
3. We stopped at Walgreen's for sundries.
4. We were overcome with the scent of vanilla and coconut being pumped out of the cheap crap casinos.
5. Denny's has slot machines and a grand slam breakfast.
6. Horrible, horrible people.
7. A kiosk called Big Balls.
8. We refused to pay $15 to walk around Sigfried and Roy's dolphin and man-eating tiger habitat.
9. A line of electric scooter wheelchairs at the slots at the Mirage. "It's great they've made so many accomodations for the handicapped," Rivka noted.

We tried to get a cab back to the hotel, but were yelled at by a 75-year-old cop. He had no problem with the teen hookers and open containers of alcohol, but God forbid we catch a cab when we weren't at a sanctioned taxi stand.

We finally trudged back to the Bellagio, exhausted. We were too tired even to take advantage of our line-jumping card, which enables us to cut in front of the millions of people patiently waiting for a table and stuff our faces first.

Rivka took a bubble bath under the benevolent gaze of Donnie and Marie Osmond while I changed the channels on both televisions to watch the local news, which reported three horrible crimes that occurred in a five mile radius within the last two days - child molestation, punching a woman in the face and stabbing a neighbor.

I love Vegas!!!

The Service Sector

Rivka and I have met a lot of people since we arrived in Vegas. And they're all in the hospitality industry. Take, for example, our lengthy discussions with our pedicurists at the salon. I offer you some choice quotes:

"The A section of the Yellow Pages in Vegas is by far the largest because of all the listings for Adult Entertainment and Attorneys."

"I did Omarosa's nails. I didn't know who she was. [She's a reality TV show "star" from Donald Trump's show, The Apprentice.] She told me she was an entertainer. But in Vegas, if you say you're an entertainer it means you're a stripper."

"I did Britney's pedicure during her crazy years when she shaved her head. My cousin told me she was a singer and I said I hoped she would get some good exposure here."

There was also Jeff, our TV repair man. Rivka was in our cavernous bathroom ironing when Jeff arrived. As he fixed our television (it had sound but no picture), Rivka shouted to him to ask where he likes to dine out in town. "Oh, I don't like the Strip much," he said. "I like Applebee's. Oh, and Claim Jumper has the best prime rib!" Rivka ironed on merrily and I nodded dumbly. Applebee's? Really?

We have two televisions. One is in the bathroom, and unfortunately it responds to the same remote control as the one in the bedroom. The way the bed is positioned, whoever is holding the remote can end up muting one TV while changing the channel in the other room. At this very moment, for instance, Rivka is looking for something to watch in the bedroom. As she's flipping channels in here, the bathroom TV is going bananas scrolling through all 15 of the Asian news channels, including the one sponsored by the Chinese government.

Rivka and Hadassah in Sin City

The last time Rivka and I traveled together, we were in the desert, strolling on the holy sands of Israel. Nearly two years after that journey, we've reunited under similar conditions - strolling through the Sands in Las Vegas.

Rivka was invited to speak at a conference about a popular book she wrote (New York Times non-fiction bestseller, ahem), so she invited me along as her spiritural advisor/personal assistant/penny-slot gambling pal. I obliged, of course.

Our limo driver, Jack, picked us up at the airport and tried to convince us on our drive that we should see a ventriloquist act. "I'm not normally into ventriloquists, but this guy was HI-larious!" he gushed. We arrived at the Bellagio and were ushered away from the hordes of fanny-pack and Hawaiian-shirt-wearing Minnesotan hordes in the lobby to a private room.

The high rollers get checked in to the hotel in a suite complete with silver urns of coffee and tea, fresh baked cookies and a spread of fruit rivaling the Garden of Eden. (Mental note: hug the conference organizers who set all this up for Rivka.)

Back out in the lobby, a loud argument got louder. Two young French guys were ready to punch each other in the Gucci glasses, saved at the last minute from a brawl by four burly, 60-something, George Hamilton-tanned security guards.

Rivka and I got to our room and wanted to start jumping up and down on the bed in sheer joy. The room was fabulous, and the view...the Eiffel Tower, a 100-foot-high image of a woman's ass (an ad for the Crazy Horse) and a billboard of Donny and Marie Osmond, spray-painted onto the entire side of the Flamingo hotel. Classy!

In our next installment: Rivka makes friends with the help.

Children of the Corn

Until this week, the swine flu vaccine was restricted to pregnant women and children. Today was the first day when people with "underlying conditions" (in my case, insanity probably counts for more than the Parkinson's) were eligible to get inoculated. So I went to wait in line at the local high school. It was a very. Long. Line.

Also, the line was filled with children. I could hear their little germy voices rising above the cool autumn breeze as I rounded the corner. I wished at that moment I had worn a bubble. Then, I prayed a crop duster would swoop down and cover them in a delicate coating of Benadryl to keep them calm.

I immediately made friends with the Young Ukranian, a lovely twenty-something standing in front of me in line. When a rogue toddler crossed in front of us, she made a face I recognize well--because I pioneered it. It's a sneer that requires a slight wrinkling of the nose indicating you've smelled either a rotting corpse or fresh dog poop, a raised eyebrow that could signal fear but also serve as a warning of sorts, topped off with a pulling up of the hands toward the chest, palms out, as though ready to shove the offending object far away from one's person. Then she said with a slight quake in her voice, "I didn't think there would be so many children." Ah yes - she was destined to be my friend.

She's a recent college graduate, a tender 22 years old. When I told her my age she gasped and said she thought I was only 25. Have I told you I liked her instantly?

We gabbed merrily for about an hour, jumping up and down to keep ourselves warm and maintaining a hopeful eye on the welcoming open door of the high school where our immunity awaited.

So imagine my surprise (and utter horror) when we entered the school to find hundreds more screaming children all crammed into endlessly long hallways.

Standing in front of the Young Ukranian and me was an adorable mom and kids - a 12-year-old girl and her 8-year-old brother. They were teeny and cute, each with matching brown eyes. I could hug them all. Except the 8 year old probably had germs. In fact, Young Ukranian and I watched in abject terror as two kids drank from the same water fountain. I shared my hand sanitizer with her as we turned our eyes away from the microbial disaster before us.

Young Ukranian and I made friends with Petite Famille and I provided the 12-year-old with my perspective on the world. "She wants to be a journalist," said the mom. I snorted knowingly and gave her the eye. "You should go into opera instead," I offered. "It's a burgeoning industry." She wasn't sure whether I was kidding or not. Neither was I.

Then the five of us watched in awe as a little boy dressed up as a Power Ranger pitched a Force 5 hurricane temper tantrum. I thought he was going to faint. Actually, I wished he would faint. His mom got down on the floor and looked like she was praying. Then there was little Liam, whom Young Ukranian and I tutted over. Poor toddler looked more like a drunk college frat boy than a baby. He had a weird puffy face and big built-up shoulders. I wondered how much steroids Gerber put in their crushed prunes and apples.

Finally, we were allowed admission to the basement where dozens of tables were set up with nurses and swine flu vaccine waiting for us. It was very Soviet-era. We sat beneath dismal fluorescent lights on metal folding chairs while children screeched in pain from the shot or at the shock of having vaccine mist jammed up their noses. Then the security guard came over to ask me to save a chair for "that woman," pointing to the praying mom and her screaming son, who now had a tsunami of snot running down his face. I nodded numbly and looked for an escape.

When I was allowed behind the curtain, a security guard took my picture while I had my arm jabbed with vaccine. And then Young Ukranian and I ran out into the fresh air of the evening, hoping we hadn't contracted some dread toddler flu while waiting in line and trying to figure out whether the one drip of flu mist she had allowed to escape her left nostril was going to compromise her immunity.

Innocents. A Broad.

As I was sipping a cup of hot Swee-Touch-Nee 97.5 percent caffeine-free tea (black "tea" leaves wrapped in tea bags made from Ukranian women's old stockings) after having peeled a layer of skin off my hands with some name brand Eastern European liquid soap (read: lye) in the office kitchen (cost cutting measures mean everything, including the recycled toilet paper, is from the highly questionable stock of the local Dollar Tree), I ruminated on a recent weekend I spent with American Boy and his two sons, whom I shall call Eight and Nine (because those are their ages).

The four of us went to an arts festival in Maryland on a beautiful sunny day to partake of funnel cake, lemonade and crap pottery lovingly crafted into serving dishes in the shapes and colors of sick cats.

A dance school was showcasing its many levels and classes in a lovely outdoor space. Upon hearing the music, Eight and Nine decided they wanted to have a seat and observe the dancing. The awkward salsa dance between an oversized, heavily breathing female and her smaller, lither partner, passed without comment. As did the adorable kindergartners dressed in chef hats and fake moustaches and the disgruntled bunch of white teens crunking to Lil' Wayne and trying to act "street."

Then, the emcee announced there would be a performance of burlesque.

American Boy and I each raised an eyebrow. But then we thought it would surely be G-rated since the perfomance was on a Sunday afternoon at a "family event."

The woman who emerged onto the stage was like no burlesque dancer I'd ever seen. Or the boys had seen, for that matter. Eight and Nine stared at her like an alien was coming out of her head. Before I begin my parade of insults for which I am so famous, let me start by complimenting her on her excellent shape. She had a great body. Which was, of course, swathed in the cheapest, clingiest white polyester I have ever seen. The dress, with a slit from Baja to Fresno, was backless, which served to show off the delightful terror of the tatooes covering her body. Her ankles were wrapped in roses and vines, the ink of which was mellowed only by her Bain de Soleil tan.

She held two large fans, which she waved and waggled at the audience throughout the song. And when she turned our way, we enjoyed a full view of her one lazy eye wandering o'er the crowd as the other kept its focus on the fans (the ones in her hand and the drooly house-husband ones in the audience).

Needless to say, when she kissed an audience member on the cheek, leaving big red lip marks behind, American Boy said something to his boys about her giving the guy the cooties.

"Yeah," said Eight emphatically when we finally dragged them away from the scene of the crime. "Definitely cooties."

Blessed Virgin

The driver who picked me up from my crap-heap, dump-garbage, flea-bag motel on Friday morning to take me to the airport was a meticulously dressed Indian sikh. He was very polite and we chatted all the way to airport. He gave me a roll of mints (because I kept clearing my throat from the cold that was settling itself into my body) and a bunch of tissues (because I was sniffling all over the place) and great advice from his mum on the best remedies for allergies.

He also had a wicked temper. A huge, double-decker tour bus tried to cut us off in traffic and he accelerated past the guy while gesticulating madly. I thought we were going to get squashed between the bus and the wall of the tunnel. I yelped and he said, "That guy is crazy!" Um, yeah. Then, as we approached the airport, a car ran a stop sign and my driver didn't even slow down. We were headed for the other guy's bumper at about 60 miles per hour. I yelled out again, and he swerved just in the nick of time. My driver never broke a sweat. "I hope he's going to our terminal so I can get out and have a word with him," he said in his impeccable English accent.

I made it in one piece to the giant international flight holding area at Heathrow and plopped myself down in Duty Free heaven to wait for my plane. As I sat there waiting, I could feel my cold nestling into my nasal passages and I knew I was in for a rough flight. I felt dizzy, sweaty...in general pretty bad.

I got on the plane and into my seat and was fine for a couple of hours. But eventually my nose started to run without stopping (giving the guy next to me a total swine flu panic - understandably) and sneezing horrendously. Oh, and my tremors kicked up. So I staggered up to a bundle of flight attendants and asked them if they could radio ahead (radio ahead? what is this? World War II?) for a wheelchair to meet me at the gate at Dulles.

One of the male flight attendants said, "Of course," and then he said the magical words I didn't expect...

"Why don't you have a lie down in Upper Class?"

Upper Class, you understand, is Virgin Atlantic's fantastic First Class cabin with lie-down beds, white linen tablecloths, real food, real utensils....I nodded my head dumbly and let him steer me to a free seat.

It was like a dream. A lovely female flight attendant unfolded the seat, made my "bed" with a down comforter, fluffed my pillow and brought me a cup of hot tea (with lemon!!!!!). I dropped right off to sleep, practically crying with relief.

I slept like a stone for about four hours, until we had about 45 minutes until landing, and then headed back to my seat (which, in Premium Economy - thank you dad!! - wasn't exactly in steerage) so I could get my things. I kept a handkerchief over my nose and mouth the rest of the trip because I felt like germs were wafting off me like swine flu perfume (Christian Dior makes it - Eau de Cochon).

When we finally came in for a bumpy landing, the woman across the aisle from me barfed.

Excellent.

I waited until the plane cleared and a gaggle of flight attendants helped me to my wheelchair. I was through customs, with my luggage in tow and in a cab within 45 minutes flat.

And then I went home and passed out with fatigue. I've made it through about four boxes of tissues and three bottles of Tylenol. And I've never been happier to see my own bed.

Blimey!

What is WRONG with these people? No wonder their sailors got scurvy! I can't get a freaking lemon around here to save my life!

I escaped from the Hell Hole Hotel yesterday afternoon and went for a stroll in Greenwich. I thought I'd enjoy high tea somewhere in the little market area. I found an adorable coffee shop filled to the rafters with patisserie and asked for a cup of tea and a scone. Scone, yes. Tea, yes. Lemon? No. Of course not. Do you see any lemon trees around here?

Getting lemon in your tea in England is like putting pants on your cat. It's really hard, but you know that if you tried, you could probably do it.

I'm working at corporate headquarters this morning and I asked at the desk if they had lemons for tea. "Oh no," she said, shaking her head gravely. "No, no." I think she even tsk'd me. Seriously! A tsk! What's that about?

I DON'T LIKE MILK IN MY GOD DAMN TEA!

Okay. Deep breaths. I'm moving on.

Here's a picture of the conference protesters yesterday - for your enjoyment.

As my wry editor pointed out, it's fanatical religious freaks, not advanced weaponry, that got us into the war in the first place, so devotional praying before a faux blood-soaked sign may not be the best way to petition for peace.

In other news:
I finally figured out why my hotel room bathroom is shaped like a pod and raised up off the floor. When I described it to a friend of mine, he exclaimed, "Oh! It's one of those self-cleaning jobbies!" Nice. It may not be self-cleaning, but he was right. The whole thing is one big plastic surface. So the grumpy Polish maids can hose it down with Clorox every morning. How messy are their guests? Are people gutting and skinning their antelope in the shower after the afternoon hunt?

Yesterday afternoon I had three interviews scheduled with sources in the U.S. That meant I was occupied on the phone until at least 8 p.m. and feeling a little bleary as I wrapped up the last interview. As the program manager went through the list of items hanging off his new helicopter, I could have sworn he talked about "precision kill musicians" instead of munitions. Which is fantastic. I had a sudden vision of a string quartet all dressed up in their tuxedos, firing violin bows at rebel troops.

It's time for me to come home, isn't it?