A Cure for Testiness

Yesterday I was testy. Someone may have hinted that I was down right grumpy, nasty, and angry. I prefer testy.

It began with a problem with refilling one of my scrips; the pharmacy wouldn’t refill it! Mind you, this is a new prescription that I received last month, and one that I will have to take for the rest of my life unless there are great strides in research of this condition I have.

I called the doctor’s office to remedy (that’s a bad pun) the situation. Of course, I was only able to talk to a machine, not a real, honest-to-goodness person. Then I went to the pharmacy to try to straighten out the problem. After I explained the problem “several” times to several different people, they finally understood what I was saying. They said agreed to give me the refill. Later in the afternoon when I picked up the medicine, they handed me two packages of the same medicine. Again I had to explain the problem. My blood pressure probably reached a dangerous level if the steam coming out of my ears was any indication.

In the midst of my testiness, Mr. Fixit asked me if I wanted to accompany him to a tool store. Oh yeah, visiting a tool store is one of my most favorite things to do—NOT! But being a good and obedient wife (Ahem), I agreed.

On the drive, I crabbed about the problem with my meds, including questioning the mental acuity of my new doctor and the intellect of the people at the pharmacy. I also went on a tirade about the chicken processing plant in Georgia who had to fire 600 people who did not have proper immigration papers and now has to employ ex-convicts which is costing the state about $l,000,000 a year; thereby costing the Georgia taxpayers a bundle. The processing plant couldn’t find American workers for these terrible jobs. The little rant went on for about 15 miles. Mr. Fixit was sitting quietly in the passenger seat agreeing with everything I said. I thought I noticed a small eye-roll, but I’m sure I was wrong. He was probably wondering why I was so upset about a situation in Georgia when we live in South Carolina.

Next a bad driver drew my ire. As I approached a traffic light, I came to a stop for the amber light. One driver going in the opposite direction turned left on the amber, no problem. Then the next car turned left, too, but the light was clearly red. Running a red light is bad enough, but she had several small children with her. She risked her children’s lives because she didn’t want to wait 30 seconds for the light to change. What was she thinking?! Mr. Fixit offered no opinion and slouched in the seat and stared out the side window.

When Mr. Fixit came out of the tool store, I offered my opinion of an elderly motorcycle rider with a stuffed animal fastened to the passenger seat on the cycle; I believe I mentioned something about going through a second childhood. He then said, “Stop at the new ‘Dunkin’ Donuts’ to see if they have Boston crèmes like we used to get in Connecticut.” I said, “You just want to get donuts because you think it will put me in a better mood.” He said, “Well, it’s worth a try.”

It worked! I felt so much better after sampling a plain donut. (I also checked my glucose levels after the treat and was delighted to see that it was only 96. That’s outstanding!)

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Happy Birthday, Mr. Fixit! Thank you for putting up with me for so many years!