I’m just going to bang this one out, because by the time I’ve typed a dozen words, it will be time to pop another pill. Another dozen, time for ANOTHER pill. And so on. I finally broke down and bought one of those pill containers grandmas use to keep track of their heart and pooping medication. It’s round like a UFO, but I bought it not for its Area 51 qualities but because the compartments are a little hard to get open. See, about a year and a half ago, someone around here–not me, by the way–thought it would be a really great idea if he made a twin “toy” out of some of the unused pill containers we had lying around. I objected on the basis that eventually we might have to fill them with real pills that they should never come into contact with, and then they would still have the “toy” association with them. No matter, his mind was made up, they were going to be toys. Besides, when the hell would I ever need to use those things? Only your mother has to take that many pills.

So I had to find a pill case that didn’t look like a pill case, and one that is kind of hard to get open. I thought I could keep up with the pill schedule without it, but I starting losing track and frankly all the pharmacy bottles around the house were starting to look kind of trashy and not very Martha. So I found the UFO case along with a nice little pill cutter–just like mom!–and managed to leave Rite Aid with just those items and no pressed powder that doesn’t match my face for the 17th time this year. Apparently I have the only skin shade in the world that is neither warm, neutral or cool. It is some kind of extraterrestrial “other.” Me and that UFO case, we were made for each other.

Originally the case’s main purpose was to hold my IC pills, which are plentiful and like so many white little pearls of bladder-saving grace, but by now it’s holding Benadryl, Prelief, and Zithromax too. The latter being the latest addition to wipe out the cold from hell that became bronchitis.

I had a doctor’s appointment today anyway (thankfully), which was supposed to be a follow-up about the Paxil. The doctor asked me why I stopped taking it, and I told her the side-effects were freaking me out, skipping the “I’m not really ready to become a celibate nun yet,” part. Then I mentioned that my ear hurt, and I was hacking up a lot of goo lately.

“The stuff you’re coughing up…what color is it?”
“Um, actually…”
“Yes?”
“It’s the color of your shirt. Sorry. But that’s the color exactly.”

She made a crooked smile, sighed, and wrote me a prescription for antibiotics. But no prescription for Lunesta. That’s what I get for accusing her of wearing diseased phlegm.